Conversations with the Man Upstairs
by BorneToFlow
Summary: Mrs Hughes struggles with the idea of becoming a property magnate with Mr Carson. Mrs Patmore lends some friendly and timely advice. Consistent with my particular headcanon. I need to account for Elsie turning down the option to buy the property, given that she harbours no fiscal/sisterly burdens in my version of who Elsie is. Some canon dialogue will be rejigged to suit my S5 aims
1. Ch 1—Distracted and Diffused

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs.** _ **Ch 1- Distracted and Diffused**_

 _ **(Rough Story Timeline: Season 5, Episode 5 - The Christmas Proposal Scene)**_

 **A/N** **\- Hello again, dear readers!**

 **I have been distracted and diffused from writing for far too long. DAFF might just jumpstart me again via the wonders of readers reviews. :) My other work in progress,** _ **Ephemera,**_ **is unaccountably holding me up, even though I know that if I finally write and publish the next letter in that sequence, the rest should finish up fairly quickly! Go figure. So, I just had to jump in somewhere- with a scene between two old friends that struck me long ago, and so I have decided to float it out before an audience with the hope that it ends up sailing on to somewhere good.**

 **This new piece is the beginnings of Elsie dealing with the house purchase scheme according to my headcanon. i.e. Elsie is not a pauper, and Charles and Elsie are openly looking for a viable retirement investment property/business as equal partners (no lifelong secretly hidden sisters in care homes and the attendant raft of lies that must go along with such a woeful plot device, thank you very much!). Familiarity with my other stories would likely be beneficial to understanding some of the nuances of this piece, but it may not be imperative.**

 **That said, I would love it if new readers would go to those older pieces to help scaffold this and future stories for them (and maybe leave reviews there too, if you are so inclined!).**

 **Reminder** **: I am a shocker for leaving overly long authors notes and research details, so do feel free to skip them all. I will try to curb my habit in this and future pieces.**

 **Suffice to say, for this piece, you need to know that Becky is Elsie's older sister by two years and has three children with her husband, David Barton. They run a thriving bakery business in Lytham-St-Anne's, and have many grandchildren and great-grand-children— as outlined across** _ **Ephemera**_ **(so far)** _ **.**_

 **Kind regards,**

 **BorneToFlow.**

 **oOOo**

 _ **Ch 1- Distracted and Diffused**_

Date: The Wee Hours. Sunday 29th November 1925

It had literally been a month of Sundays…well…it was over a month of Saturday afternoons, in all truth, and Elsie Hughes was feeling fed up…And _confused_ —much more so than anything else. All is darkness as she chews lightly on the inside of her bottom lip. There has been nothing in this month or more of glorious late autumn days that should be troubling her–days which have slipped so comfortably into the accustomed Yorkshire early winter festive chill…Well…apart from that constant nagging concern about how dear Anna could possibly be getting along so far away from home at His Majesty's behest in Holloway's dark and foreboding halls.

Within this swirl of thoughts, a hot wave flushes over Elsie, piercing her skin. Although...it more feels as if it is rushing up from somewhere deep within her as she battles with her too-tight cover sheet on her too thin bed. _Elspeth Mae Hughes! You are too diligent a housemaid—still!_ She soundly admonishes herself and her coin bounce aestheticism as she twists and struggles against her restrictions to reach for the cord on her bedside lamp.

Yellow light floods into her eyes and she squints against the pain that spikes inside her temple. A film of sweat prickles over her whole body—sudden-like and full. She feels a droplet of it forming in her blessedly unrestrained cleavage, trickling down like a shameful stain beneath her high collared nightgown. It is close to ten years since she last felt such a sudden an unexpected wave of discomfort, almost nauseating in its intensity—washing so uncontrollably through her. _Not Now! Lord! I thought this was all over and done with!_ Her flustered mind cries as her eyes roll heavenward and catch only the upper corners of gloom in her cloying attic room. She has not felt anything of this sort since her change had come on and passed away—unheralded. Yet it is all just as strange and as frightening and unexpected tonight as it was for her back then. For, most surely, no one _ever_ spoke of such unmentionable things ever happening to her, not even her dearest Becky did. But...then again...somewhere in Elsie's currently churning thoughts, she now realises that her sister _had_ alluded to such things at the time and on more than one occasion. _Huph...Dear Becky—just being her normal older sisterly-self—the same as ever she was, even when everything changes._ But there was Elsie: younger and just as lost as she feels right now, and wholly deaf and blind in her ignorance and in her discomfort about any such womanly concerns ever being spoken about in reference to _herself_ at all (especially not something that might refer to her shockingly uncontrollable body at that time). No, at the time Elsie had discounted the truth of any such matters ever becoming an actual occurrence for her—not with her confirmed spinster-status and decidedly nun-like existence. Elsie had genuinely thought that such changes must only be the burden of those who had had the chance and the blessing to have successfully borne a child.

Sometimes...Elsie still wonders at her biology. She had read some books back then, of course, from His Lordship's library...Although, not about _that_ per se. Other books, though. Some of them quite weighty and full of science and terminology that was still all new and often times confusing to her. But then, they were mainly based on animals and the things she had seen over the years, back on the farm with Mam and Da, and even here on the estate at the home farm. None of those books were truly shocking to a farm girl, such as she. They were more about things of relevance to His Lordships broader agricultural concerns and other zoological interests, often times in books that were no longer needed for any direct reference by old Jarvis in the land agent's office anymore. But most certainly, even such descriptions and diagrams as she read back then were far removed from her own existence and bodily concerns before any of these roiling changes had assaulted her senses so very thoroughly back then.

And Elsie had, of course, read other much more famous tomes. Things like _The Origin of Species_ (as best as she could understand it), and _The Descent of Man._ Oh! How that Mr Darwin still ruffles Elsie's feathers on a such a primal level to this day, for there seems to be no room for God within his theories and musings. Elsie still cannot fathom a life without that deeply felt sense of the good Lord's hand guiding her very existence. S _till, even Mr Darwin did not fully refute your existence, Dear Lord_ , Elsie muses. When Elsie was younger had read some of Mr Darwin's commentary in the Dailies. She appreciated his rather reticent and circumspect manner of address, and indeed, she appreciated what she now realises was the scientific rigour of his approach to not really knowing the full truth of the matter. Now she understands that Mr Darwin wanted to have real evidence to prove or disprove any supposition about the existence of God's hand at work within our daily lives and continuing evolution.

 _Good Lord!_ Elsie's mind is flitting about quite uncontrollably now. She huffs aloud at her having fallen into these strange and disconnected musings. _It is so much like back then…what is happening to me tonight, Dear Lord? I cannot keep a straight thought in my head. And why am I awake at this hour anyway?_ She huffs audibly once more at the thought of the rapidly approaching and busy new day as she automatically prays to the God she herself has never felt a need to lose faith in… _Well…maybe there were a few moments of doubt in there, Lord...during my illness… and the war… and after Dear Lady Sybil and Mr Matthew were so cruelly taken…Why?...It was just like poor David Jr's Margie, and Moira's lovely Alistair…Sweet William...Little Jean...so many, Lord...Huughh-Schnummph._ Elsie sighs out aloud again as she blinks away some of that old grief and rises from the side of her bed, for it has long been her unorthodox manner to move about the room as she continues her silent conversations with God, discounting tonight her almost equally strong drive to just fall to her knees beside her bed like a child once more. But she just does not know yet what it is she feels she must pray for so very fervently. Besides which, the heavy sweat droplet between her breasts has now trickled down into her navel and it is far, far too irritating to be ignored. She feels flustered and most decidedly unsettled. _Why am I like this!_ She audibly mutters to herself as she scuffles over to her washstand in her bed slippers. _What is it you are trying to tell me, Lord_? _Why am I like this now?...And again! This should not happen to me more than once, surely?!_

Tonight, this desperately heated physicality has happened upon Elsie in much the same way as it did all those years ago. It had always been frightening in its suddenness and utterly overwhelming to her senses. And it is all just as inexplicable to her now. But at least now, Elsie does know from her reading…and indeed from Becky (once she had finally started to hear) and from that equally forthright but private and professional Scot, Dr Clarkson, who had actually mentioned a little of such things way back when Elsie was having her tests done. It seems it is only now that Elsie can actually recall him saying something about the particular issues women of a certain age faced. _Oh! How I hated that, Lord!—the thought of actually being 'A woman of a certain age'!...Still do, really..._ And at the time Elsie had thought that Dr Clarkson, just meant that she was more prone to such horrible illnesses as breast cancer— _especially_ in one who had never had the right opportunity available to her to bear and suckle a bairn. At the time it had crossed Elsie's mind that the good Lord was playing some sort of cruel trick on her, a penance of sorts because she had refused to use her body for what it was most surely designed to do. _Urgh...it was all such a horrid blur!_ as Elsie realises once more how she must have misheard and not fully understood much of what Dr Clarkson explained to her about her illness as she lived and worked within that heavy fog of uncertainty— and of abject fear, really. And besides anything else, the worst of those _other_ sorts of symptoms had already left her, leaving behind only a benign cyst—an unwanted growth. But, in all truth, at the time of her illness, Elsie had really felt much more dried and shrivelled and used up by life than anything else. It was quite different to when she had previously had all those awful feelings of being constantly full and flushed with sweating mildew—like some sort of strange rotting away of her former potential fruitfulness as she had maybe wished that sometimes she might have somehow gone another way. _Lord! How could I have been so very ignorant back then! Uuugh! And_ _You really are stewing in it all now Elsie Mae Hughes— ye old prune!... What are ye about?_ Her mind is spun up with chastisement and stretching like a Chinese finger trap now. She cannot seem to snap out of it tonight.

But back then, she had but briefly rued her ignorance of such things, and then she just got on with it all, as Elsie Mae Hughes is wont to do. _No, but it was really only after Mrs Crawley_. She is the one who had broken through and spoken to Elsie with typical candour, and from a place of similarly timed experience. Yet, it was discreetly, and with a nurse's professional care—when she saw Elsie struggling with her composure one day as she escorted young Daisy to the Cottage Hospital to have a burn dressing checked. But it was because of that bold and caring and educated woman's advice, Elsie had read more scientifically and even further afield. And so, despite her current discombobulated state, Elsie _does_ know about such things now. So _it cannot be all of_ _tha_ _t all over again— I at least know_ _that_ _much, Lord._

 _Oh,_ _dear Lord above!_ Elsie recalls that she has only just recently had rather robust and unexpected conversation with Mrs Patmore as that little pepper pot, just over ten years her junior, stomped loudly away from her ever-bubbling crucibles, more red-faced than ever, and shouting for the store cupboard key for the first time in _more_ than a few years. Elsie remembers spinning quickly in her swivel desk chair, eyebrows furrowed and automatically at the ready for the Lancashire Bomber-maiden's full onslaught and imminent defeat at the hands of a single formidable Scottish Dragoon. _Ruddy Store Cupboard Key!_ _Why on earth has_ _this_ _all come up AGAIN!_ Elsie remembers thinking at the time. But the vision that greeted Elsie as she turned about was one of a panting and flustered Mrs Patmore, red to the very tips of her ears, perspiring uncontrollably, her curly hair all lank beneath her cap and her grey smock dress showing dark watermarks underneath the arms. Mrs Patmore leaned heavily on the back of one Mrs Hughes wooden chairs and tried desperately to cool her face with a doyly from the side table—it being the first sign of relief that came to hand as she sought refuge in Mrs Hughes sitting room so as to fan herself rapidly and well away from the prying and questioning gazes of any of her young scullery maids or any odd hall boy skulking about in want of an extra scrap of food. _Poor Beryl. Thank the Lord I had the benefit of my dark dresses during my time!...But at least she is facing it all without the worries of a tiresome old corset,_ Elsie clearly remembers thinking when she quickly realised what Mrs Patmore was actually about. Then Elsie promptly saw to getting some iced water and a cool compress from the kitchen and ensuring Daisy was set to hold the fort. Thankfully, Elsie managed to catch Miss Baxter on the run, whom she knows is currently helping Lady Grantham with a more regular dressing regime some days and for similar reasons as is Mrs Patmore's current malaise. Mis Baxter discreetly trooped up to the servant's quarters to retrieve a fresh dress for Mrs Patmore to change into in Elsie's sitting room. No, Elsie does not envy Mrs Patmore's current journey into late middle age, that much is certain! _At least that is all done and dusted for me,_ Elsie thinks ruefully as she pours cool water from her pitcher, wrings out a cloth in her washbasin and then reaches beneath the hem of her nightdress to mop her sticky perspiration away from her belly and beneath the droop of her breasts that have stuck quite uncomfortably to her chest.

Thus, inelegantly poised, Elsie's heart stops and her head almost hits on the edge of the marble-topped washstand when she hears a light tap at her door. _Lord above! What is it now!_ She grumbles internally as her outward voice drops into its careful professional tone.

"Just one moment" she speaks quietly towards the door as she quickly straightens herself and draws her well-worn housecoat over her shoulders. By the time she has traversed to few steps to her bedroom door, her robe is securely tied and Mrs Hughes is firmly in position, stern and mildly disapproving expression in place over the top of her inherent concern for whatever the problem on the other side of the door may be at three o'clock on a Sunday morning.

"Oh! Mrs Patmore. Is everything quite all right" she asks soto voce, unavoidably surprised at her visitation when she opens the door.

"I were about to ask you the same thing Mrs Hughes. I saw the light beneath your door and I could hear you shuffl'n about and muttering something to yourself when I passed by."

"What on _earth_ are you doing up and about at this hour Mrs Patmore?" Elsie whispers. There is no point everyone in the lady's corridor missing out on precious sleep tonight, so she quickly draws Mrs Patmore into her room and lightly clicks the door shut behind them.

"Ugh, much the same as usual at the moment, I am afraid. I got so hot and bothered that I had to change the damp sheets on my bed and head to the washroom for a proper sponge down. Lord above, it will be a right ol' blessing when these worries of youth finally leave me for good!'

Elsie cannot help but scoff at their shared dilemmas and quickly covers her mouth to stop a full giggle bubbling forth. She feels utterly girlish and silly with Beryl hiding out in her room in the wee hours of the morning and sharing her secrets in typically bawdy fashion.

"You and me both, Mrs Patmore. I woke up in a hot sweat myself just then."

"Surely not! It cannot possibly go on for that long, can it?! Oh…oh...um, I do beg your pardon Mrs Hughes… I meant nought by it," she starts spluttering "… but…well…you see, I had heard different-like and…well…you are just a _little_ older than me now."

Elsie is giggling quite uncontrollably now, desperately trying to stop herself and only making it a lot worse as she snorts in an unladylike breath. Tears start to form in the corners of her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all—and most especially because Mrs Patmore getting all apologetic on her. For some reason she cannot explain, everything is just so incredibly hilarious to Elsie in this moment. The perplexed, flustered and sleep deprived look on Beryl's face makes her appear as a fuzzy and disgruntled woodland creature that has been unwillingly dragged backwards out of its burrow. Elsie is set to have a fit.

"Oh Beryl," she giggles out, "stop! or I shall have to run to the washroom myself soon!"

And that just gets Beryl snickering as silently as she can behind her hand.

"All the things I have to look forward to Mrs Hughes!"

"Yes!" Elsie breathes out on the over the top of another fit of giggles she just cannot seem to contain.

Beryl just looks at her completely perplexed, but she is quite enjoying that her friend's good humour has returned after an evening where she could tell that Mrs Hughes was distracted over something—there was a remoteness to her that made her come across as quite vague at times. Mrs Patmore has seldom encountered it in her—really only when they thought she was quite ill all of those years ago. And then she realises that her friend has finally called her by her first name, at least in the privacy of this shared moment, and so Beryl reaches out to clasp at Mrs Hughes forearm through her dressing gown sleeve and takes a risk.

"Elsie…what is it, Deary?" Mrs Patmore eyes her seriously and it brings Elsie up short. With shocked eyes she breathes deeply in and out a few times before she can control her speech effectively.

"Oh Mrs Patmore, I am afraid I always _will_ be a tad older than you, so no offence is taken, I can assure you. And rest assured that _it_ does all end a lot sooner than that, thank the Lord." And she offers Beryl a supportive smile.

"So tell me what got you all so hot and bothered tonight, then, hmm?" and she silently prays that her friend is not ill again "…and its Beryl tonight, Elsie," she says softly. Elsie hiccoughs in a sharp breath and her eyes instantly well up when she fully fathoms the blessing of having a female friend close enough to her own age to share in all of her woes—even the ones she cannot quite name yet. In fact, the power of speech seems to have left Elsie completely for the moment. Beryl sees it in a trice."I'll tell you what, let me just write a quick note to leave on the young Jill's door to not wake Daisy early today. I am up now, so I may as well stay up and set the kitchen fires m'self today, and get the breakfast started. I'd best leave a note on Daisy's bedside table too so she can have a small lie-in and not fret. She and Ivy can handle the dinner tonight and I will catch my rest with an early finish after church and Sunday luncheon." Beryl looks closely at Elsie and can see that whatever sleep she had managed since they both retired at eleven o'clock last night was as fitful as her own had been. "I think you can afford to do the same, Mrs Hughes. The family have no grand plans this Sunday evening, as y' well know. So you and I can go down now to sneak a cuppa and a late night snack now before they all come running at us again at daybreak. What do y'say?"

A tear finally breaks through its fragile wall and trickles down Elsie's cheek. She just nods in acquiescence and unspeakable gratitude. _What on earth is wrong with ye Elsie Mae Hughes, ye daft apeth!_

"Let me just change into m'day dress and I will see you down in your sitting room, Elsie." Beryl informs her, recognising that her friend will want some time to compose herself a little for whatever it is she needs to talk about.

"Thank you Beryl," she finally manages to whisper out thickly as she takes her Chatelaine from her dresser and quietly locks her room behind her and sees to the one at the entrance to the women's corridor.

oOOo

 **A/N** **: Sooo...where to next? Your responses will spark new ideas I am sure. TIA.**

 **Notes on my other writings:** **The ending of** _ **Ephemera**_ **is largely blocked out and will be finished before I embark upon a major post-Chelsie retirement saga/drama I have brewing. That latter piece already has many, many chapters written. However, I will need fan support to haul through some of the brewing chapters in that mega-fiction for which I have only the bones blocked out at this stage. There are difficult plot manoeuvres I need to make and I am not sure yet how they should be revealed. Fan responses really are a huge inspiration to me, so thank you in advance for offering any time you may have to write them. I will work on PM responses to all of them if you are signed up to FF.**

 **I really would like to see that multi-chapter fiction finished before the 2019 DA movie release. However, I can sadly promise nothing, as this year sees me carrying a fairly heavy teaching and marking workload, ongoing carer duties, and a possible house move to boot! But, with your lovely help, I would still like to try to write that grand drama for your enjoyment. :)**

 **Regards,**

 **BorneToFlow**


	2. Ch 2—Tea and Sympathy

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs.** _ **Ch 2- Tea and Sympathy**_

 ** _oOOo_**

 _From Ch 1:_

 _"So tell me what got you all so hot and bothered tonight, then, hmm?" and she silently prays that her friend is not ill again "…and its Beryl tonight, Elsie," she says softly. Elsie hiccoughs in a sharp breath and her eyes instantly well up when she fully fathoms the blessing of having a female friend close enough to her own age to share in all of her woes—even the ones she cannot quite name yet. In fact, the power of speech seems to have left Elsie completely for the moment. Beryl sees it in a trice."I'll tell you what, let me just write a quick note to leave on the young Jill's door to not wake Daisy early today. I am up now, so I may as well stay up and set the kitchen fires m'self today, and get the breakfast started. I'd best leave a note on Daisy's bedside table too so she can have a small lie-in and not fret. She and Ivy can handle the dinner tonight and I will catch my rest with an early finish after church and Sunday luncheon." Beryl looks closely at Elsie and can see that whatever sleep she had managed since they both retired at eleven o'clock last night was as fitful as her own had been. "I think you can afford to do the same, Mrs Hughes. The family have no grand plans this Sunday evening, as y' well know. So you and I can go down now to sneak a cuppa and a late night snack now before they all come running at us again at daybreak. What do y'say?"_

 _A tear finally breaks through its fragile wall and trickles down Elsie's cheek. She just nods in acquiescence and unspeakable gratitude._ What on earth is wrong with ye Elsie Mae Hughes, ye daft apeth!

 _"Let me just change into m'day dress and I will see you down in your sitting room, Elsie." Beryl informs her, recognising that her friend will want some time to compose herself a little for whatever it is she needs to talk about._

 _"Thank you, Beryl," she finally manages to whisper out thickly as she takes her Chatelaine from her dresser and quietly locks her room behind her and sees to the one at the entrance to the women's corridor._

 ** _oOOo_**

 **Ch 2- Tea and Sympathy**

Date: The Wee Hours, Sunday 29th November 1925

Elsie inhales the refreshing sweet whisp of rising sulphur dust as the match flares and the paper in her sitting room fire grate steams the early morning chill away in an instant and then catches to a slowly warming glow– flicking sounds like a tiny elf's fingers snapping at a happy job well done between his invisible friends. _Fire elves now is it, Elsie?—ye silly gloik. Up too early even for the Jill or the hall boys to be setting the fires…Huugh…_ The cold slates of the Abbey's vaulted servant's halls feel hard beneath her aching arches in this silent lifeless hour. _Jill will be up soon enough though, poor lass…_ Mrs Hughes mind starts listing through the routines of the coming day. Even in these more restrained days, some poor soul in the Abbey needs to be up before the first cock-crow to see to all of the necessary fireplaces. Elsie cannot even remember the days when that duty last fell to her. _I've been blessed here all of these years, haven't I Lord?_ She checks in with the man upstairs as she gazes wistfully into the crackling kindling and feels some of the chill inside her shifting through her slowly aging bones.

"Hauugh" she sighs again, perplexed and still. She stares—all a quandary.

"That sounds like a weight of the world in need of shifting" Beryl quietly announces her arrival at the sitting room table as she places the tea tray down and carefully checks that Mrs Hughes has managed to put herself back together enough for a proper chat.

"Perhaps" is Elsie's near silent and pensive reply. Beryl's brow crinkles slightly at the listlessness now evident in her friend's tone. Practicalities appear to be needed.

"Would you like the leftover treacle tart or some Shrewsbury Cakes?" she prompts.

"The Shrewsburies, I think. Nothing too sweet for me tonight. Thank you, Mrs Patmore." Elsie moves to pour the tea while the midnight treats are being doled out by the now freshly put together cook.

Beryl finds it is strange to be more formally dressed than the housekeeper. Mrs Hughes currently looks waiflike and swamped by the size of her housecoat, which if Beryl were the type to judge, is bordering on the tatty side of things. _Perhaps we ought to spend a day in Ripon…for necessities…_ It strikes Beryl oddly, as they have never arranged for their errand days to occur in unison before. _No harm in starting now though, I suppose. But let's not get ahead of ourselves_ …

"Right you are…And it's Beryl tonight. Remember?"

"Aye. I do…Thank you."

"Come on now, stop your fussing and sit yourself down. It's not called the Housekeeper's sitting room for nought."

"Noh…true enough…It is…where I sit." Is Elsie's cryptic and somewhat forlorn reply.

"And that's a good thing to have…isn't it?... Elsie?" Beryl tries to break through the vacant stare that Elsie has now trained upon the swirling steam rising from her teacup.

"Aye…that it is…Hmmm…" Elsie tries to gather a thread of clear thought as she sighs at the simple pleasure of sipping at a decent cup of tea served under a solid roof where she can rest her weary head at the end of every long day. "It is indeed a blessing, Mrs Patmore…Beryl…" She corrects and pauses to sip again at her tea. Beryl waits with uncommon patience for Elsie to say what is on her mind. "How…How are things coming along with your guest house, then?"

Beryl is momentarily taken aback. This is not at all the tack that she was expecting this conversation would take. She wonders briefly if Elsie may be purposely obfuscating. But then Elsie lifts her eyes after placing her teacup precisely in the cradle of its saucer and she holds Beryl's gaze quite intently. _So…this_ _is_ _what she's angling at._ In all truth, Beryl has been itching to know more about Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes' property hunting expeditions these last long weeks of Autumn, but the two have been even more reticent than usual about divulging any details of their lives. Not known for being overly circuitous in her conversational skills, Beryl does decide to tread a little lightly tonight and sets to fill in the details of her really quite exciting little venture into running her very own business…and a retirement scheme of sorts.

"Well, it's coming along quite nicely. Thank you for asking…I suppose I am in no real rush to have it turning over a profit _just_ yet. I bought it outright and I can afford to wait a little to see it all fixed up exactly as I want it. Work is secure here…for the moment it seems, what with the family still entertaining quite a bit…still trying to marry off the young ladies I s'pose…So, I'll keep putting a little aside each month and paying for works on the house as I can…the kitchen is almost as I would like it…and next I will be deciding on what to do about the outdoor privy… I think paying guests would want an indoor one…It will likely be a selling point for people staying in the area…"

"I do think that is wise"

"And well…I suppose I am holding off a little bit too…for I want for it to be a security, as you know…but not just for my future…You see, my Katie's Lucy, my niece that is…I want for her to be the overseer and cook—give her an opportunity to work for a boss who will treat her right, and all…She's a good lass, Lucy."

"That's such a lovely thing to do, Beryl."

"Yes, well, you see, she's been a-courting this young lad from Haughton Le Skerne…and that were part of my thinking in taking the property in the first place, actually…for it is further from here than is truly convenient for me…but, you see, the two met a little while back…Well…you remember when they all came to visit Archie's memorial?" Elsie just nods attentively enjoying her friend's enthusiasm. "And we all went to a dance in Thirsk one night while they were here…and our Lucy met this young Geoffrey fellow,…and it all looked quite serious from the very outset, I don't mind telling you. Well…he appears to be quite honourable and true—kept up with writing to Lucy regularly and visiting her at Katie and Arthur's in Preston whenever he could—like a _proper_ suitor. He's a carpenter by trade, and I've even had him finish a couple of small jobs on the house—freshening the windows frames and architraves and the like. He made a lovely kitchen cabinet for me too. Didn't charge me full price for it, neither. I'll be getting him onto a good sized chopping block next."

"He sounds like a good lad."

"Oh, he is that all right…in fact, Katie has only just written this week to say that he has asked Arthur's permission to marry our Lucy!"

"Oh how lovely! And so you are sure she'll accept?"

"I see no reason why she wouldn't. She is not a bit so picky and fickle as our Daisy here!"

"I don't think that could be at all possible, Beryl!"

"No!" Beryl scoffs in agreement. "And so there you have it, now I feel surer than ever that Lucy can handle the running of the guest house…and especially the breakfasts… I want to become known for our breakfasts y'see…but more importantly, at least if she marries Geoffrey, she will be safe."

"A permanent chaperone."

"Exactly— for I can't say I haven't worried about the thought of her venturing into something like this all alone—running a place without her family near— and still so young too. If they are to marry, you see, they can stay on at his parents' place and Lucy can just come in daily, or they take one of the rooms at the Bed and Breakfast…at least until such time as they have any babies."

"That all makes good sense."

"Well, I hope so…you see…I thought it would be nice-like…to have some family established somewhere in the area for when I retire…It's true I could have always gone to Katie and Arthur's, I suppose…but this way—now we all have some options…I am closer to Lucy for when she gets started out…and if anything were ever to happen to Arthur… well, then Katie could come to Haughton Le Skerne to be with Lucy and Geoffery and then we could all be together…in time."

"That's important…It sounds like you have it all planned out…"

"Well…nothing in life is certain…but it does all offer a different way to look at things…I can't suppose on having His Lordship offering up a full cottage and a pension by the time I am looking down that particular barrel."

"You know that he and Lady Grantham will give you that if they possibly can."

"Do you really think so?...I mean…it's not so as you or I are allowed to hire any new staff for those that we lose anymore…we don't know if the estate can keep supporting the likes of us in the way we all figured on it happening back when we were starting out."

"No…I well know that…You have done a wise thing, using your Aunt's money to sort things for your future. You've been smarter than me…and a lot earlier in the piece, to boot. I am sure it will all turn to rights for you, Beryl. I really am very happy for you," Elsie finishes quietly.

"Thank you…And then...what of your plans, Elsie?" Beryl tentatively nudges, her own news now all but spent and her curiosity for the Hughes-Carson Syndicate's Property Venture really is as fervent as ever.

"Well…like you…I have always had the offer to join Becky and her David over in Lytham's when the time comes… I do always miss them so terribly…especially Moira at the moment…I wish she could find herself a good man…but that is none too easy at her age…not many a man of her vintage came out of the war either alive _or_ unscathed…or unmarried for that matter…and, I should like to see more of young Rebekah and Lilispeth too…they're such lovely little girls…And I would be on hand to help in the shop front if ever I was needed…I could be useful…earn my keep…"

"But would you be happy?"

Elsie starts a little at the turn of phrase and tries to place the reason why.

"Well why wouldn't I be?" she utters on a sharper breath than she intended. Beryl hedges a little, not wanting to push too hard and see Elsie clam up on her completely, as Beryl knows that she is wont to do about her private life.

"Well…I suppose I mean it a bit like it is for me…really. I can't say I don't dwell on what it might be like to leave all of Downton behind me for good…now that I have the option…and especially since Daisy briefly floated her scheme to leave for London forever…That hit me harder than I was ever expecting, I'll not lie to you. It was bad enough to think on how much I'd miss even one person from here…let alone the whole ruddy lot of you…" Beryl focuses on her rough-chapped hands resting in her lap. "It…it's been my home, Elsie…and for a good long while…" she trails off and lifts the bottom corner of her pinafore to dab a little at the corners of her eyes.

Elsie's head turns aside as she blinks in glaze-eyed sympathy.

"Quite…" she whispers softly.

"Huugh…look at me will y'! Mooning about like a heifer in the corner of the paddock that the bull overlooked!"

 _Beryl! Honestly!_ Elsie articulates with her eyes alone—and a small huph of breath as she shakes her head at her friend's particularly blunt way with words. Beryl takes the hint.

"…Anyway, Elsie, what of the house hunting with Mr Carson? Are you close to finding something that will serve for your retirement plans as well?"

"Hmm?...Oh…yes…" a distracted Elsie finally turns back to the topic at hand. "Quite well…I suppose..."

"You don't sound very certain…Is there nothing the likes of my little property hereabouts that you could start on managing together?"

"As a matter of fact…I think there is…It's a little place we saw right in the village today…yesterday…in the afternoon," Elsie details unnecessarily.

Beryl well knows that the recent regular Saturday picnic lunches she has been packing at Mr Carson behest have been for the express purpose of the two heads of staff being able to spend some free hours perusing various investment properties. And in truth, she hasn't but wondered if the old romantic galoot was playing at courting Mrs Hughes a little in the process. _And not before time—_ to Beryl's mind, what with the way Mr Carson has been mooning about all bereft whenever the two have been at each other's throats over any nonsense or another ever since that day they had waded hand in hand together—out to sea. _Seriously! And I thought only Daisy moved slower than a sloth underwater! If he were any more obtuse, the man will be gaz'n at the back of his own head!_

But Beryl merely asks, "You mean the Brounker Road one?"

"How did you know?" Elsie's eyes sharpen in on any possible trace of gossip she'll not want spread about her private plans and days out with Mr Carson. _The loveliest days that I've ever had,_ Elsie realises in a flash.

"Well, since I started looking for properties m'self I suppose I've found it enjoyable to keep an eye out and read about the various places on offer hereabouts— think about how I would do things if it were mine." Elsie just stares at her friend, a little taken aback at the way she talks and thinks about her interests and new lot in life now. "That one on Brounker looks a tidy place, nicely set on the edge of the village but not too far from Downton High Street and the Arms…If it were up for sale when I were ready to buy I'd have put in an offer for it m'self…although, truth to tell, it is a little out of my reach…and I'd not have liked to ask the bank for a loan…No—Haughton Le Skerne were the right choice for me…But if I were you and Mr Carson, I'd put an offer on that place quick smart. It has more rooms than my little one…it would do well to set you _both_ up for retirement as a guest house—quite lucrative even…if your funds will stretch to it. Have you showed your interest yet?"

Elsie shakes her head a little in disbelief at her friend becoming such a savvy property owner so very quickly.

"Phewff…well I never…" Beryl just cocks a querying eyebrow to further elicit an answer from a particularly reticent Mrs Hughes. "Well…Mr Carson is certainly very interested. I'd not be surprised if he wants to make an offer on it."

"Well…I would wager the man has barely spent a day of his life not thinking about Downton…I've always thought he'd be much preferring a place close by." She watches Elsie pondering this fact. "…But…you're _not_ … interested?"

"Well… I'm not _un_ interested…it has all of those benefits you mentioned. It does need some work, as yours has- mainly the kitchen and washroom…I…i-it…it's just…that…"

"Hmm?"

"I mean…How would we manage it, Beryl…if it were just the two of us running the place in retirement?"

"Well, I don't see how that could be a problem…" Beryl rolls her eyes heavenward to indicate the fullness of the space they are in "The pair of you have run this behemoth like a well-oiled clock for more years than I can count. A small guest house would be an absolute doddle."

"I _knowh_ that" Elsie's brogue hits hard with frustration on the drawn-out vowels. "But we do all of this," she gestures with a sweep of her hand, "with a myriad of staff running about between us…w-what if…how…how would it be…if it was just the two of us…stuck together all day running a tiny guesthouse." Beryl just looks thoroughly confused and cannot fathom where on earth the issue in Elsie's heart lies. "Well…it's just that …w-where would we go to get…out of each other's hair as we can here…I mean…we've barely stopped butting heads long enough recently to arrange some half days off together to even _look_ at prospective properties."

"But you _did_ manage it, Elsie…as the two of you always do…in the end."

"Maybe…but…"

"I thought this was a sensible move for you both…I thought you wanted this, Elsie."

"Yes…I do…" Elsie finally looks up at her friend with glassy eyes and rasps out. "But I-I'm just not sure anymore…th-that it…it is… _all_ I want."

"What? You want _more_ rooms?" Elsie makes a nearly inaudible squeaking sound deep in her throat and looks at her friend with imploring eyes now that she has finally happened upon the crux of what got her all so hot and bothered across this wholy deplorable and disrupted evening—so much so that it woke her up at this most ungodly hour of the morning.

"Oh…oh I see…" The penny finally drops for Beryl. "So…Brounker Road…has enough rooms to house you both comfortably and still turn a profit with at least _some_ guest rooms?" Elsie just nods forlornly. "…and…Mr Carson has not made any other…possible… _arrangements_ …clear to you?"

"Noh" Elsie whispers out past the heavy lump in her throat.

"Ruddy old fool! I oughta smack him upside the head with an omelette pan!" Beryl mutters beneath her breath.

"Don't you dare!" Elsie gasps out in instant defence.

"Huuugh…as if I ever would…couldn't reach for starters...Although, I'm not lying when I say that used to think such a thing would be well beneath the man's dignity—and that now I am not so sure." She shakes her head incredulously as she eyes her friend closely. Elsie holds a quivering sad little smile about her lips and obliviously dabs at her eyes with a pristine handkerchief that clearly sports Mr Carson's embroidered initials. "Well, …it seems you have quite a few decisions to be making together…and likely quicker than either of you are used to doing so…at least when it comes to your…personal…affairs…" Beryl knows that her next words might seem like a brushing off of the confused burden her dearest friend has finally managed to share with her tonight, in the hopes of receiving some clear advice, but Beryl really cannot see what else she can possibly do to help in this situation. "…Elsie-dear…" She reaches across the detritus of their shared tea to clasp her hand atop one of Elsie's as it wrings at the kerchief in her hand—offering what sympathy she can as she gestures her eyes up to the highest vaulted rafters of the old Abbey, "Deary…you know…this really is a conversation to be had between you and the man upstairs."

oOOo


	3. Ch 3—Confession and Supplication

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs.** _ **Ch. 3—Confession and Supplication**_

oOOo

From Ch 2:

 _"Ruddy old fool! I oughta smack him upside the head with an omelette pan!" Beryl mutters beneath her breath._

 _"Don't you dare!" Elsie gasps out in instant defence._

 _"Huuugh…as if I ever would…couldn't reach for starters...Although, I'm not lying when I say that used to think such a thing would be well beneath the man's dignity—and that now I am not so sure." She shakes her head incredulously as she eyes her friend closely. Elsie holds a quivering sad little smile about her lips and obliviously dabs at her eyes with a pristine handkerchief that clearly sports Mr Carson's embroidered initials. "Well, …it seems you have quite a few decisions to be making together…and likely quicker than either of you are used to doing so…at least when it comes to your…personal…affairs…" Beryl knows that her next words might seem like a brushing off of the confused burden her dearest friend has finally managed to share with her tonight, in the hopes of receiving some clear advice, but Beryl really cannot see what else she can possibly do to help in this situation. "…Elsie-dear…" She reaches across the detritus of their shared tea to clasp her hand atop one of Elsie's as it wrings at the kerchief in her hand—offering what sympathy she can as she gestures her eyes up to the highest vaulted rafters of the old Abbey, "Deary…you know…this really is a conversation to be had between you and the man upstairs."_

 _oOOo_

 ** _Chapter 3—Confession and Supplication_**

Time: _The same Sunday morning in late November 1925_

Elsie trudges her weary way back up to servants' quarters after Beryl convinces her that _there was nought more to be done about her dilemma at this time of morning_ and that she had _best try to catch some kip before breakfast and church today—Wise words I suppose…_

Only marginally less discombobulated than when she set out on pre-dawn expedition to the bowels of the Abbey with Beryl for some tea and sympathy, Elsie finds she actually has to rest with a hand against the door jamb of the entrance of the women's quarters when she finally makes it up to the attics. _You're getting far too old for all of this Elspeth Mae Hughes_ her mind pants out the words in time with her lungs _._ She feels every long hour of her 62 years in this moment.

Elsie forcibly pushes away from the door jamb to fumble as quietly as she can with her chatelaine and the keyhole in the dim light of morn that sadly drips through the frosted skylight above her. A shadow of movement catches her breath and the corner of her eye. Still as a mouse. She sees through the frosted pane of the door to the men's quarters the ghost-like shape of the man that has been haunting her restless sleep these last weeks. For a moment she thinks it might still be part of some lucid walking dream—merely a phantom of her overtired imagination. _Noh…I'd know him anywhere—_ The cadence of his movements—the sheer bulk of him—the silence…and the way his head tilts as he listens to the sounds of the house. in her mind's eyes, she can see the exact lilt of his raised eyebrow. She sees his brisk, no-nonsense movements and imagines the shape of his strong, thick and tapered fingers as he pauses completely. The stillness of him—as he pauses partway through re-tying his robe. She knows he is leaving the men's washroom—knows that he thinks he has heard something. Her. Still. Holding her breath. Her heart pounds and it takes all of her will to halt her drive to use her keys in the dividing door between them. Her skin prickles with hot shameful sweat again—palpable… _Need...need…to just…to…see him…as he might be …if ever…if ever…we were to…to…well…of-a-night…of… a night…_ to just be able to touch the warm striped cuff of his flannelette pyjamas and finally feel him unfurl a little and hold her hand again— _Just once. Once more, please Lord—_ as they did on that one day at the beach…S _o long ago._

But she fades into the shadow of the ladies quarters architrave and waits—like a silly school girl caught in a crush and restricted once again by her position—wedged between skirted, press-seamed propriety and the giddy dangers lurking out behind the shelter shed– until finally she sees the single movement of his head as he shakes off the notion that he might have heard some mischief from any of the lads. Then he silently pushes through the door to his little room that mirrors her own, and she shadows him as she too disappears behind the lock and key.

And once inside she finally does fall to her knees like a child beside her bed and she prays with steepled hands clasped tight to her forehead around threads of borrowed white—her elbows gouging deep into her rumpled counterpane. Elsie prays inside herself—most fervently—in between her stilted silent soul-wracking sobs.

 _Dear Lord, please forgive me…Forgive me. Am..am I wrong to want… such...such things…at…at my age…am…am I wrong to want such things as we might build together?...when…when we are too old to build much of anything anymore...no family…no bairns for us…it's too late… it's too late…so why...why should we bother with all of that anyway?…but…but …Oh, Lord…God…am I wrong to want him so?...to finally have that sacrament? Help me, Lord. Oh God please…please just…help me to see what I must do…to…to… Oh Lord, I…I cannot...cannot ask him myself—can I?! How? How can I make him see?… See me... the… the things…the things that…I…I want…I want the things he needs to say…Will he ever say the things I need him to say?… I want him to…Please God, I can't help it…I want him to. Help me. Help me to help him…see…it…to say it…say it...Please….please Lord…Please...Please…_

But the answer does not come before she drops from a final sob into fitful sleep— still kneeling. It does not come as Elsie's twisted back cries out in silent agony to the rapping of Jill's dawn-hour knock. Her matted hair leaves red creased marks of her tears upon her cheek as she scrapes her heavy head from the damp and rumpled bed to start another gruelling day where the only comfort afforded to her is the crumpled monogrammed kerchief— all twisted inside and about her hand.

oOOo

 **A/N:** **I was just re-watching various scenes across S5 surrounding the war memorial drama and property purchases for Mrs Patmore, and Carson/Hughes and I realised just how much I have conflated all of those sequences of events to make this story happen! Oh well, it was bound to occur as soon as I discounted so much of JF canon about these characters, and pushed the Chelsie wedding out to May 1926 to suit my honeymoon fiction aims. Just assume that I am mulching up canon events across 1925 in my own mind to see Chelsie through a slightly longer engagement/property refurbishment phase before that 1926 marriage date—that will have to do! I suppose it does give a good swag of time for all of Elsie's 'full marriage' misgivings to properly fester and so it makes that whole scenario seem** _ **marginally**_ **more reasonable!**

 **I have also mentioned that Anna is being held in HMP Holloway, London—which actually was exclusively a women's prison since 1903-2016. In the series, it appears that Lady Mary and Bates visit Anna in York Prison. This would have been impossible as York Castle Prison (built 1825-35) was exclusively a Military prison from 1900-34 (so it** _ **could**_ **make sense that Bates was held there after the Vera nonsense). I also based my choice for Holloway on the fact that Vyner arrested Anna in London and the Green murder would likely have been investigated from that jurisdiction anyway.**

 **It appears I remain historically pedantic but canonically disruptive.**

 **Regards,**

 **BorneToFlow.**

 **oOOo**


	4. Ch 4—Though Like a Wanderer

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs.** _ **Ch.4—Though Like a Wanderer**_

 _Time:_ _6:15am the same Sunday morning, 29th November 1925._

 _oOOo_

 _Well…tidy enough, all things considered…_ Mrs Hughes closely eyes her somewhat haggard visage in the oval looking glass atop her bedroom dresser. The water in her basin and ewer was absolutely frigid this morning when she doused her face and prayed that her red-rimmed lids and the dark circles beneath her eyes would shrink away a little before she faced the onslaught of the day. _Thank God for small mercies, I suppose._

She will be a little late down this morning, which is not ideal as there is still so much to organise before the family leaves for Brancaster Castle on Tuesday morning. _We have dallied this year…which we could ill afford- what with Anna away, and Mr Bates more gone than here—and more oft than not in mind than body._ _All these cottages and gadding about the countryside…what was the point?_

Mrs Hughes rarely uses a dusting of face powder, and certainly not for going to church, but today Elsie would rather cover her illness of heart with at least a thin veneer of normalcy, lest the staff should wonder…and talk. One last smoothing down of her day dress—which is one of her favourites but that she hasn't actually worn for years. Thankfully it is still trim on her and it is of a lighter fabric that is still adequate cover before the full chill of winter falls. It has the lower neckline and orange brocade that she thinks still favours her quite well. She likes to dress it against her green winter coat and her satin dusk and royal blue scarf when she can _. Yes._ _And a brisk walk to and from church ought to serve me well, no doubt._ She tucks one last strand of hair under her coiled braids. Secured and neat as a pin, she turns, albeit a little stiffly, to face the day.

oOOo

The usual clatter and bustling hum of the kitchen greet her as she enters the servants' halls. Sundays, far from being a day of rest, seem to begin with an even more harried and precise use of time than other days of the week. All is running like fast clockwork so as to ensure everyone is fed and watered before upstairs and down alike make their way to St Michael's for the early mass. But Mrs Hughes finds it gratifying to see that all is ticking along as it should be, even in her delay. They have a steady staff at the moment, although it is a much-diminished crew, and she knows for a fact that Mrs Patmore has covered for her well in her short absence this morning, as will have Mr Carson. In fact, she is surprised to not see him walking through hallways lording it about a bit more, but she spies that his pantry door is open as she mouths a silent thank you to Mrs Patmore when she passes the archway of the kitchen and makes her inevitable way towards Mr Carson's domain to offer an apology.

She stops short in his doorway at the vision of the elegant hulk of the man diligently pouring over the latest array of prospectuses for their proposed property investment. She wills her body not to wilt against the door jamb where all and sundry might observe her weary slovenliness. Still, she cannot help but pause to gaze. He has not spied her yet and her breath catches as she imagines how he will look at his own desk in his own cottage one day—finally master of his own domain and not just of a borrowed corner of another man's place. _He'd be content…wouldn't he, Lord? Just as he is now…but more so…Aye, he would be that…at least..._ It sends a pang of the deepest longing through her chest and Elsie finds that she has to bite down hard on her lip to stop any more tears from welling in her overtired eyes. And she is so much more aware of the beating of her heart against her chest these days—a quickening—which she has been fervently hoping is not a sign of her imminent demise. But it is only now that she realises that it happens exclusively when she first sees him of a day…or when he walks towards her, precise and businesslike as ever… or should he ever brush near her on the stairs…and just whenever she thinks on him, really. And he just looks so perfect to her now, with all of his dreams spread out before him. _I do want for him to have that life, Lord. I really do…all that he ever wants…he deserves it_.

"Ah. Mrs Hughes. Good morning to you." He states brightly as he catches the halo of soft sunlight highlighting the edges of her neat hair styling. _And_ _the orange brocade. My favourite—it contrasts with her eyes so well._ The flash of thoughts barely even registers consciously in his mind.

"Good morning to you, Mr Carson. I must apologise for my tardiness today." Her hands positioned neatly at her waist fuss a little with the blue scarf and her hat for the day, which she has yet to deposit into her sitting room ready for the walk into the village later. "I am afraid I spent a rather restless night."

"It is no matter. No doubt it is all the planning we have to finalise tomorrow before the family leaves. Mrs Patmore informed me you would still be down in plenty of time this morning. And, as ever, your maids have not let you down and it appears all is still on track for this morning."

"Thank you. And yes, I daresay Mrs Patmore ensured their compliance for me…And then some, by the looks of it, Mr Carson, if you have time to be perusing those documents now. I trust she did nothing untoward in directing your footmen and the hall boys."

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. And I am _quite_ capable of handling the lads, thank you very much, Mrs Hughes". She smiles lightly at his proud, brusque manner as he finishes tugging down the front of his waistcoat, even when seated. _So familiar…_

"I would never doubt it, Mr Carson"

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes…But if the truth be told, I was a little restless myself in the wee hours of the morning, I suppose it's all of these house options. There is much to mull over… sums and such like. Anyway…I decided to rise earlier than usual, rather than fuss over an inability to sleep. I got ahead on some of my tasks this morning and all is well in hand for the family leaving, provided that no one dilly-dallies tomorrow with the final arrangements. In fact, I was considering allowing them all the proper rest they should have on the Sabbath today, Mrs Hughes, if that suits your side of affairs equally."

"Let me check my day list before we are seated for breakfast, but I believe it is a wise move for all of us. I was intending to leave the late work to the girls. Madge can oversee it well enough. And apart from the family's bedrooms, all other room turnovers can wait until they have left on Tuesday morning. I thought I might try to retire a little earlier tonight, myself." She eyes him closely and cannot help but worry for the lack of rest he must have had last night. "Perhaps you ought to do the same, Mr Carson, if you slept so poorly last night."

"No , no… I think it best if I handle the family's dinner tonight and lock up, rather than Mr Barrow. He will have too much to complete tomorrow, along with Mr Bates to ensure his Lordships suits and hunting kit is all in order. Mr Molesley has offered to help with Mr Branson's so I think Andrew and I can adequately serve the family dinner tonight.

"Yes, Mrs Patmore assures me it is a simple enough affair. Well,… I had best be about it. I'll see you in at breakfast shortly."

Carson's brow crinkles a little as he finally sees beyond the vision of Mrs Hughes' quiet figure bathed in morning light and captures the heavy lilt of weariness imbued in all her movements. _I hope our outings have not tired her unnecessarily._ But he knows she hates him fretting after her health, so he would never dare to mention it.

"Indeed, Mrs Hughes." _Urgh. You could at least have said you would look forward to it—you dolt!_ But again, his mind barely heeds the content of his heart as he turns his diligent focus back to the list of figures on his desk.

 _oOOo_

The early walk into the village is frigid, but it is the invigorating traipse that Elsie needs to clear her head. The mist has yet to rise from the grounds of the Abbey that are still frosted in morning grey. By mid-morning at least she is sure that the rising sun will have melted the crisp blades of grass to a glistening green once more… _But even those days are numbered…_ Elsie thinks as the chill of winter is most surely taking a greater hold of these rapidly shortening days. She breathes deep tendrils of cold into her lungs until it smarts in a line upside her temples and dewy steam mists before her eyes in return.

Mr Carson walks a half body width away in his customary and preferred position beside Mrs Hughes. He too enjoys the briskness of the morning as he recalculates his thinking about the four contenders for their guest house purchase. He has a preference here as well but wants to lay the options and figures all out before Mrs Hughes before he makes his own desires known. If she did not suggest the option for taking early retirement he would dearly like to speak with her on it tonight. _But tomorrow will serve just as well, I suppose. She had said there was no need to rush into anything._ He feels the cold tendrils of the air burning in his lungs and the clear thoughts of his future by her side make him puff his chest up even further as he revels in the delightful pang of contentment the whole notion gives him. Eyes and head held high, he only just registers in time the sudden slipping away of the sureness of Mrs Hughes presence by his side.

On a reflex his right arm snatches outwards and captures Mrs Hughes by the elbow just before she completely loses her footing on the glassy surface of ice set amongst the gravel that has yet to melt away in the morning sun.

"Oh!"

"Mrs Hughes! Here you are…I've got you. I've got you."

"Do you?" Her heart blurts aloud before she has full control of her faculties, and then she fumbles for her composure. "Thank you,… Mr Carson." She pauses to catch her breath a little, swallow the lump in her throat and let her heart settle a little from the shock, quite glad that the understaff had already made some distance between them as they hurried along at a greater pace to make it into the warmth of the village church sooner. "I'm sorry, That…that was quite clumsy of me." Unfortunately, her heart is yet to quieten to a respectable level as Mr Carson is still gripping her quite firmly about her elbow as he caught her up just in time. He has come about to face her squarely and his other leather gloved hand is absently rubbing up and down on her opposite arm, just below her shoulder. He peers down seriously towards her face, which is showing the most delightful pink blush across her cheeks and her nose is a little rosy—peeking sweetly out from the rest of her white chilled complexion.

"Are you quite all right, Mrs Hughes?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr Carson. Noh bones broken." Although, she has jarred her back quite painfully—not that she would ever let on about what exacerbated that situation overnight.

"Good, for I would hate for you to be hurt. Perhaps you would like to take my arm for the rest of the way into the village. The paths can be quite slippery at this time of year."

"Yes…they are."

"Well, are you ready to walk on now, Mrs Hughes?" he asks with quiet pragmatism.

"If you insist, Mr Carson…Thank you," she finishes softly, still embarrassed by her unsteadiness…and what it says about her advancing years and diminishing capacities.

And although her path is steadier for the rest of the journey into St Michael's, Elsie feels like she is still tottering on the edge of an abyss filled with imminent pain. And the precipice only sharpens and her breath catches in her throat once more as they come into view of the edge of the village where Mr Carson gently releases her arm with a final query about her stability from there on—and for the sake of propriety—for he absolutely will not have anyone gossip or cast any aspersions about the housekeeper of Downton Abbey.

oOOo

 **A/N: I was unsure about ending this chapter here, but I do hope to have the next part of this up very soon. Thank you for your continuing support. BTF.**


	5. Ch 5—Nearer to Thee

**Conversations With the Man Upstairs.** _ **Chapter 5—Nearer to Thee**_

Date: 8am Sunday 29th November, 1925.

They take up their place in their regular pew towards the rear of the church, with Mr Carson nearest the outer side aisle as he has been allocated the reading of the Eucharistic and Responsorial Psalms today and requires easy access to the front of the church when needed. As usual, the first part of the service drones on with Reverend Travis' typically uninspired sermon, and the woeful St Michael's of All Angels Choir groaning their way through the allocated hymns for the day. Mr Carson is not surprised by Mrs Hughes' slightly glazed expression throughout, but it is when he has to direct her belatedly to the correct pages of the Book of Common Prayer on a second occasion that he finally registers just how out of sorts she is today. His brow furrows more deeply when he senses her jerking awake at one point as her hat brim brushes against him and her head nearly falls upon his shoulder.

Thankfully, Reverend Travis has always had a more vivid sense of occasion when directing the rituals of the Holy Communion and Elsie manages to brighten enough to attend properly to this order of service. And besides anything else, she can now admit to herself that she just adores listening to Mr Carson do the readings. His voice naturally commands attention from everyone. But then she finds herself her eyes completely captivated by his visage as the parish begins in the quiet and reverent strains of final recessional hymn and the elegantly suited Mr Carson sings by heart as he silently glides across the century to assist the Reverend in replacing the paten, chalice and ciborium into the tabernacle—his whole being imbued with the grace of this highest form of earthly service.

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee._

 _E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,_

 _Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee._

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee._

 _-oo-oo-oo-_

 _Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,_

 _Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;_

 _Yet in my dreams I'd be nearer, my God, to Thee._

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee._

By the end of the shared second verse he has turned towards her and pauses at the top of the steps into the century arch, singing in his fine deep baritone the soft third verse which normally taken by all the men of the congregation while one or two of the ladies will attempt to weave a wordless countermelody throughout it. Elsie's heart thickens in her throat as he keeps his steady gaze and all of his concern trained upon her. She cannot look away as he slowly makes his way towards her—seeming to sing only to her. For her.

 _There let the way appear, steps unto Heav'n;_

 _All that Thou sendest me, in mercy giv'n;_

 _Angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to Thee._

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee._

And for his part, Mr Carson has always enjoyed singing this particular hymn in concert with Mrs Hughes pretty alto range complimenting his own tones such that they mostly overlap hers but can reach some notes below hers just as hers can stretch a few above his own. He can normally focus on her parts to the exclusion of all else. And so, he can filter out the halting and off-key mess of the choir at the front of the church to just savour the moments when, after the lower tones of the men's verse, he can hear Mrs Hughes sing a little brighter on the ladies fourth verse—not quite a high warbling soprano, but swelling and sweet and seemingly sung as if his own voice has laid a stable foundation for her to be able to soar just that little bit higher with her own. And then he feels the coming together again of their varied voices for the robust and rising fifth stanza, before finishing in unison and complete accord on the final floating verse and refrain—mutually calming and reverent. Together. They have worked and grieved and celebrated and prayed and sung together here for nearly three decades—almost half of his entire life— and Charles just cannot fathom spending his Sundays in church without Mrs Hughes right by his side. But today as he slowly steps down the side aisle towards her he sees that she is barely keeping the countermelody, and she seems stunned to silence and he can see that she is swallowing down hard on some grief he does not understand. _Is it worry for Anna and Mr Bate and all their sorrows again?_ As the men's part finishes he is nearer to her and she cannot look away.

As he takes his place beside her again he sees that her eyes are swimming and her pretty strains are quavering as she only just manages to round out the softness of the ladies fourth.

 _Then, with my waking thoughts bright with Thy praise,_

 _Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;_

 _So by my woes to be nearer, my God, to Thee._

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee._

With him near her again she seems to rally and rise with the tune, despite her obvious woes, and he can still take pleasure in the way he feels his deeper bass notes lay a foundation for her brighter and lighter tones to soar along with the whole parish's combined voices, which despite the general tonelessness and lack of timing evident across the congregation, just serves to makes her sound all the sweeter so close to his ears.

 _Or, if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,_

 _Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I'll fly,_

 _Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee._

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!_

But Elsie cannot help the tears that she has been diligently trying to hold at bay trickling down her cheeks when everything she wants still seems so far from reach. She tries to shield her face with her hat brim by tilting her face downwards, only to see the neatly pressed, folded and pristine white handkerchief, clear with his initials stitched onto it, that he has placed upon her lap without her even noticing. She gives up all hope of holding the tune across the last verse and refrain as the first drops of suffering soak into his innate kindness and all of his dreams…her dreams…

 _There in my Father's home, safe and at rest,_

 _There in my Savior's love, perfectly blest;_

 _Age after age to be nearer, my God, to Thee._

 _Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!_

He knows better than to ask what has moved her so right now and so he stays by her side in silent prayer for her suffering, hoping against hope that she is not ill again…and fielding nods of acknowledgment and querying gazes as the last of the congregation shuffle down the aisle and outside to chat a little before tea is served in the vestry. Then he silently rises to go and shield her from any further scrutiny by putting in a most reluctant show of constancy from the heads of staff of the Abbey in front of St Michael's of All Angels.

oOOo

Later in the vestry, Mr Carson is casting his eye about trying to see that Mrs Hughes has finally been able to join them, but she is nowhere to be seen. In deep concern he spies Mrs Patmore making her goodbyes to some of the ladies of the village and moving on to do the same with Mr Mason, who has travelled from Mallerton this week, as he sometimes does, to attend a service together with Daisy.

"Ah, good day Mr Mason. I trust you are well.' He asks with customary politeness even as he fights against an insistent drive to forcibly pull Mrs Patmore aside and question her desperately about where Mrs Hughes could possibly have got to.

"I am very well. Thank you, Mr Carson."

"Good…good."

Thankfully Mrs Patmore has pegged Mr Carson's thinly veiled distress and directs proceedings with a subtle deftness the butler has rarely ever recognised in her.

"Mr Mason, I am afraid I must be getting back to the Abbey now to start on the lunch, but Daisy, you stay on for a while and catch up with your father. I hope to see you here again soon, Mr Mason."

"Thank you, Mrs Patmore. I will aim for the last Sunday before Christmas.

'Oh, that'll be nice."

"I'll look forward to it. Good day to you, Mrs Patmore." Mr Mason lifts his hat to her as Charles makes use of the moment.

"I will take my leave as well Mr Mason, busy days ahead at the Abbey. But it is good to see you so soon again after the memorial service."

"Likewise, Mr Carson. Good day," he finishes as he shakes hands and wonders a little as the large man's face becomes intensely serious as soon as he turns to move away with Mrs Patmore.

"Well, we'll see you a bit later then, Daisy."

"Yes, Mrs Patmore. Mr Carson"

As they move from the vestry and out of earshot Mr Carson is quick to lean down towards Mrs Patmore's ear to make his quiet enquiry.

"Mrs Patmore, have you seen Mrs Hughes since the service?"

"No, Mr Carson, I never saw her leave the church."

"Do you know if…if she is… quite well? Mrs Hughes mentioned she slept poorly."

"Seems to be catching—between the three of us, that is."

"Only… she seems quite out of sorts today…I mean…she doesn't have anything on her mind…like before…something…more distressing…does she?"

The fear in his voice is palpable but at least Mrs Patmore can assure him that he need not suspect the worse. Still, the fact that he can still be so totally oblivious to the part he is playing—or not playing, as the case is— in Mrs Hughes current state of poor composure rankles Beryl no end, and so her thin veneer of social politeness leaves her in a jiffy and she bites out a rejoinder as she only just resists the urge to forcibly take the big lunk by the ears to try to twist his totally obtuse head back on straight.

"No, Mr Carson…she is _not_ ill. Thank the Lord…But if you don't finalise your intentions for this property venture of yours, quick smart, I cannot guarantee the ongoing health of _either_ of you in my presence for much longer!"

"Bwah…wha…?" Mr Carson splutters out totally confused about how his concern for Mrs Hughes health has seen him landed in hot water with Mrs Patmore now.

"Look,…" Beryl softens at the sight of the floundering old doofus who would know his own heart so much the better if he would just look down at his ruddy sleeve every now and again, "she's probably just headed back to the Abbey early…Just…give her a little space today and then _speak_ to her. Now come on, we had best be getting on."

Mr Carson just huffs and grumbles and then falls into furrow-browed silence as he begins the seemingly interminable walk back to Abbey with Mrs Patmore—somewhat miffed that in all of his diligent planning for a steady future together with Mrs Hughes, he is still somehow to blame for all of this today.

oOOo

And as they walk, Elsie is already ensconced at her desk, diligently scratching away at her adjusted rotas. She pauses to stretch her fingers that can cramp up a little more readily on these colder days when she writes in too much of a flurry. She rises to stoke the coals in her sitting room fire grate and to check on how Mr Carson's two borrowed handkerchiefs, freshly washed and rinsed, are drying out over the firescreen before she can press them with a smoothing iron and return them to him. Elsie gazes for a long time at the flickering flames, thinking about the swirling grief she felt as she had surreptitiously left the church via the side vestibule door and through the graveyard—not wanting to face the land of the living again quite so soon. She rubs her fingers and senses the residue of cold marble from when she smoothed her still gloveless hand over their dear Sweet William's grave, as she finds she is often wont to do…and she reminds herself that, one day, the Abbey will indeed have to run, somehow, without her…and then she also realises with dire clarity and as it was for their Sweet William, that sometimes the path towards something good—something better—requires, at the very least, the risk of great sacrifice.

oOOo


	6. Ch 6—Pacing and Perplexed

**Conversations with the Man Upstair** **s.** _ **Chapter 6—Pacing and Perplexed**_

 **A/N** **: Most of the italicised dialogue in quotation marks is from the S5 Ep 9 Christmas Special. Internal thoughts are also italicised, so I hope it does not get too confusing.**

 **I have conflated some character events and the timing of certain actions. Dialogue is often doctored to suit my needs. For example, I think I have Baxter take some of Mrs Hughes lines in the early dialogue here as Mrs Hughes needs to be out of the room. Carson/Hughes dialogues are the main things I have adjusted to suit my particular Chelsie Headcanon.**

 *** Asterix denotes character traits/concepts explored in other BorneToFlow fictions. Mostly from** _ **The Acquisition of Memories**_ **honeymoon fiction.**

 **I should also put in my 'JF owns it Disclaimer.' — Yep…that was it. BTF**

oOOo

Time: The same late November Sunday morning, 1925— back at the Abbey after the church service.

Back downstairs, Carson is all business once again. His distress and confusion about the morning's events have been stuffed inside his day time waistcoat and tails, which replaced his Sunday Best regular suit coat when he returned from church. The half-Windsor knot of his black tie feels…restricting. But that is likely for the best as he tries so valiantly to hold himself together as he strides into the servants' hall.

" _What on Earth's going on here?!_ What happened to the light duties recommended to everyone today?...and _Shouldn't you be in the gun-room?"_ he snips out at Mr Barrow.

Carson has never been much enamoured of guns. It is not for lack of knowledge of their upkeep, for he spent many years as the 6th Earl's, and now the current Earl's valet, and he is far from against their use for the humane euthanising of domestic livestock. Nor is he against hunting per se—especially for food, and even the full performance and spectacle of the fox hunts makes him feel proud of Downton and her part in the greatness of England. He just dislikes the suddenness of a gun's purpose—the terribly shocking inability to ever take any of it back once the trigger is squeezed and the missile has been launched. _On our dining table, of all places!—And on a Sunday!_

Mr Barrow looks purposefully down the open double-barrel towards him and Carson cannot help but feel the overwhelming reflex to lean away, but he fights it—valiantly—never wanting to appear at all timid in that man's beady silver eyes.

" _Mr Jackson's got the underkeeper with him. I didn't want to be in their way."_ Barrow informs Mr Carson, as if he is always seeking to make other's lives more convenient.

" _You're in OUR way."_ Carson snaps back _. You smarmy little git_ , he finishes silently.

" _It won't take long,"_ Mr Bates intercedes _. "I would prefer to keep myself busy if I can't_ be organising to _go to see Mrs Bates_ tomorrow _." And this smarmy git seems to want to tag and pester me rather than leave me be…He'll be trying to curry His Lordship's favour for even more of my job this week, that much is sure,_ Bates broods _._ Bates had been hoping for a bit of breathing space after church, for spending too long in the vestry fielding disapproving side-glances and sympathy for Anna's plight was not his idea of a pleasant way to spend the morning. _"And_ besides, _I'm glad of the chance to check it's in shape before they go."_

" _I don't need checking. I'm to load for His Lordship, which you never can."_

 _Bloody squabbling children,_ Carson thinks peevishly. As he curbs his intense desire to clip Barrow about the ear as if he were still a snivelling and whining hall boy from a former century. _Hmmf…the 1890s…the Golden Age._

" _Mr Barrow's father was a shooting man."_ Miss Baxter offers in an innate attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in the atmosphere.

" _Killing sparrows by the gasworks is not the same as shooting grouse at Brancaster Castle!_ Carson huffs out imperiously as he turns on his heel to seek sanctuary in his pantry for a moment before putting up appearances at the grand front entrance, ready for when the family's returns from the village. If he were free of a thousand prying eyes today, he would probably stomp in there like a petulant child. Sometimes being the constantly gruff disciplinarian can be so terribly tedious.

"Blimey! What's crawled up his nose this morning?"

"Tho-mas." Miss Baxter tusks him with a small smile tickling the corners of her mouth. The sparrow-like woman never likes to stand in opposition to anyone, and she is diligently feeling her careful way forward with Mr Barrow since his illness. _He was always such a cheeky lad_. Then she turns her attention to Mr Bates. "It _must have been hard to miss your visit."_

" _Lady Mary wanted to go_ before the Moorlands trip _. They only allow one visitor at a time, unless there's a special reason."_

" _It may help for them to see the family thinks her innocent. The sacrifice could be worth it."_

" _I'd cut my arm off if I thought it would do any good."_

" _I don't think that'd be sensible."_ Mr Barrow offers with precise casualness as he purposefully cocks the break-action of the shotgun barrel back into place and lifts the stock to his shoulder to check the sight is plumb. " _We can't have you wobbly at both ends_."

Miss Baxter knows she shouldn't laugh at such a misfortune, but she does have to turn away lest she offends Mr Bates with her thinly veiled smirk. _Cheeky lad, Thomas._ Thomas' slick side glance catches it and recognition flickers briefly in his heart—of the true pleasure of sharing a moment of friendly humour, over and above those old demons of excess pride, envy…and even lust for victory over another that Thomas was actually seeking pleasure in again with that particular barb he threw at Bates. _Perhaps there is…another way._

Bates, ex-jailbird and attentive valet that he is, does not miss a trick, and were he one capable of rolling his eyes, he'd have done so. However, he cannot even summon a brooding glower to spike at Thomas for all of the jabs he has sent his way this morning. _Besides, there is a shift of sorts in the oily git_. And indeed, Bates does recognise more clearly that something has unsettled their august leader today. But quite frankly, at the moment he just has far bigger grouse to shoot than worry about Thomas' petty games, nor Mr Carson's latest outrage.

oOOo

Far from being a day where he envisioned some pockets of time being available to calmly discuss different property options for his combined retirement plans with Mr Hughes, Charles spends an interminable day trapped between two worlds— and quite frankly, he wants nothing to do with either one of them at the moment. Downstairs, the staff are alternately bickering or running to and fro far more than he wanted for this supposed day of rest. He knows there will be plenty of time to sort the last of the packing on tomorrow for Tuesday departure for Moorlands, provided everyone hops to it well enough. Whilst he knows he should be grateful for having such a diligent staff who want to stay on top of things, Carson really would have preferred to have some moments of quietude in the servants' hall today. _Maybe by dinnertime, they will lay off a bit…especially Thomas. Blast his stupid one-upmanship with Bates!…AND running Andrew about as if the lad will collapse into a heap of utter ineptitude as soon as the 'glorious' Under Butler ships out. Urgh…I can't even use an excuse to hide in the cellar today…wines are sorted for tonight and tomorrow…mid-week deliveries recorded, stacked away…  
_

Carson thought that serving upstairs would offer some respite. Typically, the family are not very demanding on a Sunday and he can usually attend to their self-served sideboard luncheon, afternoon tea and even dinner with little conscious thought on his part being required. But today, he feels buffeted about, and to be perfectly frank, just a tad miffed, by the seemingly endless stream of petty demands from the upstairs family. Most of the Crawleys are lazing about in the main library after luncheon, playing with the children for the afternoon, and reminiscing—which is all very fine and well, except that they seem to always be asking Carson whether he remembers this or that inanity about whether the ladies of the house 'ever did that' like Miss Sybbie or Master George or little Miss Marigold are doing, back when they were little. On any other day, Carson would happily oblige them with what are normally quite fond memories for him, but he really would prefer to be quietly standing and serving afternoon tea and thinking about the only lady in the house that truly concerns him.

And then, when he is downstairs, he seems totally unable to even cross paths with the lady in question. Mrs Hughes took a tray in her sitting room for lunch, and he suspects she may have grabbed a quick forty winks on her sitting room settee, given how exhausted she appeared in church today. And then, despite her assurances that she would slow her own staff down, Madge has been only too eager to please and cement her place in the hierarchy of maids and so she has been diligently seeing to the tasks Mrs Hughes set her with the gallery rooms, and then wanting Mrs Hughes up and about there to double-check all is in order. And then for some obscure reason, Mrs Hughes made a trip down to the laundry room, even though the girls only come in from the village on alternate weekdays since the end of the war when it is only the family at home. She made some mutterings about helping Miss Baxter finalise some cocktail dresses for the ladies about to go away… _Which, I suppose with Anna away, there is a heavy load for Miss Baxter to arrange…as Mrs Hughes pointed out earlier._ He wonders why Mrs Hughes even bothered agreeing with him that it should be a slow day downstairs if it really was not possible on her side of things.

By the end of the early dinner service, which was indeed a pedestrian affair, where Carson did have ample time to dwell upon how this very odd day, he just found himself feeling decidedly…peevish. After some final queries from His Lordship that all is well in hand for the trip away—all repetitive, inane and quite unnecessary— Carson leaves Andrew to clear the brandy and cigars from the smoking room and to attend to the brief drawing-room requirements before the family moves up for an early night. _Gurgh!... If ANYONE had bothered to listen to me today—and just…stopped…TALKING!— I could have at least strung some fishing flies together!*_ _Humph!_ Carson pushes wearily through the green baize door to trudge, or rather, almost stomp with sloppy ankles and heavy feet down the stairs. He hopes and prays that he might at least see Mrs Hughes by his side for their light Sunday supper tonight, even if neither of them is in much of a mood to talk.

oOOo

 _7.00pm_

Sadly, Mr Carson's mood is not lifted any further by the presence of Mrs Hughes at his right hand at the staff's dinner. He watches her carefully with a series of not too lengthy side glances as they eat their thick barley and ham hock soup. She is quiet, and truly, it does suit his mood better at the moment, but still… _it is not like her to be so…still…no spark…_ He barely holds in a heavy sigh as he hears Thomas make some glib remark that would be better left at the back door with his foul old coffee tin of cigarette butt-ends than said at the dinner table. _Not even a glare? An eye roll, Mrs Hughes? …Hurrgh…can't be bothered with it all myself, truth be told…_ Even though he senses Barrow eyeing him curiously for not taking his bait. He struggles to keep his shoulders and back straight as he stares disconsolately at the dregs in his bowl and sees Mrs Hughes toying around the edges of her soup plate watching the liquid drizzle off the back of her spoon. They seem to heave their shoulders in unison and no doubt the staff must think that nothing they can do today can ever truly please their leaders. But, they _are_ letting conversation flow more freely than usual around the table and so most of the staff finally start to settle into a relaxing couple of hours before they go up to bed. Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes then dutifully tuck back into the remains of their first course, for neither one of them was ever brought up to waste the food good Lord sets before them.

When Daisy comes in with Lily to clear the soup dishes and serve the mashed potato and trout fried fishcakes Mrs Hughes decides to make her excuses.

"Daisy, has Mrs Patmore already gone up?"

"Yes, Mrs Hughes. She took a tray up with her."

"Good. Good…Mr Carson, I will also excuse myself, it will be a busy day tomorrow, and I find that I am not particularly hungry after that soup." Mr Carson just raises a querying eyebrow but does not really expect any further detail from Mrs Hughes in front of all of the staff. "Daisy, supper was lovely, thank you, but please serve my portion to Daniel and Roland if they are still hungry."

"Oh, they're always hungry Mrs Hughes. Mrs Patmore says all hall boys have hollow legs" Daisy replies with amused affection directed down the table towards the newly beaming young lads. Daisy sees her younger self just starting out at the abbey in the two and she does enjoy sneaking extra tasters and treats to them whenever she can—and Mrs Patmore is not looking—for she never had any younger siblings of her own to be looking out for.

"I'm sure they do." Mrs Hughes replies with a slight smile as she begins to rise. It is most unusual that she would leave the table before Mr Carson himself finishes and rises to dismiss all the staff, and she does not miss the consternation brewing on his stern brow and thinly drawn lips. But he rises as any gentleman should do to see a lady off from a table, and with a great ruckus of shuffling, everyone at the table follows suit. "Please excuse me, everyone. Girls, I suggest that you don't spend _too_ long up tonight playing at games and the like. There is still much to do in the morning before the family leaves. I will say goodnight to you all. Goodnight Mr Carson."

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes." They all chorus in unison, but her ears are trained, above all else, to hear the rumblings of deep concern in Mr Carson's salutation.

Mr Carson finds he has lost all appetite and he would dearly love to leave the table as well, but he must not cause gossip below stairs. Thomas _could_ oversee the rest of the dinner, but he has been champing at the bit for more of his own head than is good for anyone, so Carson sits again and forces himself to affect a calm demeanour and plough diligently though a favourite meal of his that he really no longer feels like—the patties of the upstairs family's leftover Trout à la Meuniére and Potatoes Dauphinoise from dinner last night just seem to stick in his throat like a painful fishbone.

oOOo

 _7:45pm_

It is a blessed relief when Andrew finally comes down from the drawing-room and informs Mr Carson that the family are retiring for the evening. As Bates and Baxter scurry off to see to the evening dressings, Carson goes to find some peace and solitude by pacing the lower floors checking every window and every door is safely locked for the night. He takes his time, as he does still want for the staff to be rewarded for their diligence and to have some leisure time this Sunday evening, and he knows they relax more into their games if he is not hovering nearby. The fact that Mrs Hughes will not be within earshot of them in her sitting room, as one of them normally is of a night like this, just does not even register as a possible issue in his mind. He has far bigger fish to fry—investment property options; a rapidly approaching retirement age (and a long overdue one, at that); and, Mrs Hughes are the ingredients currently making an unseemly mish-mash inside his head right now. As each room is checked over he zig-zags in a strange, silent and clicking step gavotte to switch off all the wall sconce lights and finally the main chandeliers, systematically plunging each section of the house into darkness as he makes his way back to the green baize door. Sadly, his clarity of mind only seems to follow the same pattern he dances across the Abbey and he merely succeeds in dragging the darkness downstairs with him, and all of its unsteadiness rests heavy in his heart.

oOOo

 _8:30pm_

The sounds of laughter and light conversation drift up from the servant's hall as many of the staff gather about the table to play at cards or catch up on the sporting news or the like. He feels so very detached from it all. It has been so very many years since he joined in the kind of comradery that the understaff can enjoy with one another—if they have a mind to. It is not until he spies a soft light emanating from the base of Mrs Hughes' sitting room door that he feels a shocking pang through his heart for just how much he has missed his own easy connection and comradery with Mrs Hughes today. He knew he was uncomfortable about something, and today has definitely been a day where he has felt that they have not been in agreement; and yet, Charles still cannot work out what on Earth it is they are out of alignment about. _But what is she still doing up and about?_ Still, Charles is not so surprised that she would diligently keep an ear out for the staffs' leisure time if she realised that he had gone upstairs to lock up before she finished straightening her desk one last time before she went up to the attics.

It is only when he spots the pile of prospectuses on his desk that the grinding cogs of the day finally clunk into place and he makes a swift decision. He takes Mrs Patmore's advice, if for no other reason than a fear of getting brained by the copper-pot come morning if he does not take the opportunity presented to him of Mrs Hughes still being awake and available in her sitting room.

After his customary quick tap at her door, he consciously stills his reeling nerves and enters.

"Ah, Mrs Hughes…I am glad I caught you still up." The house files neatly tucked under his arm, he gestures upwards with the decanter and wine glasses in his opposite hand, _"They didn't finish this—_ tomorrow's menu won't warrant it, and what with them _away_ on Tuesday _,…I thought we might… It's a favourite of mine."_

He eyes her closely, still picking up an overall weariness in her demeanour, even though she smiles lightly and gestures unnecessarily for him to make himself comfortable at her side table. He is quick with pouring the wine, for if he dallies he knows he may not be as direct with his thoughts tonight as he has resolved to be.

" _Mmm, it's very nice."_

Carson watches Mrs Hughes demurely sip the wine again and sighs internally at the pleasure Mrs Hughes takes in his offering. He always finds her response to his wine selections immensely gratifying. _At least I can get_ _something_ _right today._ He mentally shakes his head clear of a plethora of half-hazed thoughts. _"_ Well…yes… _You won't go far wrong with a Margaux. Mmm."_ Then he firmly taps his fingers twice on the prospectus files he has placed on her side of the table.

" _These four are real contenders._ Three bedrooms each, but I think _you'll like this_ one with four _good-sized bedrooms,_ a _bathroom already installed—and a room off the kitchen for a maid_ _,"_ he points to the uppermost file where Mrs Hughes is toying absently at the cover _. "It's not_ too _dear, but I think it's very good value. I've done the sums and I believe we should put an offer in on the house on Brounker Road."_

 _So this is the way it is to be—four bedrooms._ Her heart clenches painfully around the thought. " _Before I agree to be part of it?"_

" _I hope you will agree— To our future as property magnates."_ He straightens with pride at the thought of it…and more than a little happiness. If there were a word for how he feels about this whole retirement project with Mrs Hughes it would be _most decidedly chuffed._ As he tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat, he misses the repressed sigh and grim set line of Mrs Hughes lips.

Steeling herself with the harsh resolve she has managed to build up across the day, Mrs Hughes finally speaks _. "Very well. I can see there's no escape, and I must tell the truth."_

Carson's brow furrows immediately. _"I've never caught you in a lie."_

" _No,"_ She continues quietly, looking longingly at the house file under her fingertips, smoothing over the cover of the one for Brounker Road. Finally, she crosses her hands demurely in her lap and looks mournfully down at them as she tries to still the thudding of blood in her veins. _"I don't lie,…but there are things I don't say…"_ She looks back up into his soft and concerned eyes, "…things I… _cannot_ say…Mr Carson," tumbles out, willing him to understand her, but he just looks utterly confused. " _I've allowed this folly to go on because… I don't know, really… because it was a nice idea."_ She has never fought so much for the right words in all of her life, and yet everything still seems to be coming out all wrong as she sees the moment that Mr Carson's breathing stops, and she knows that his heart will be next and that she will have caused it all _. "And I would have liked to come in with you, I would have."_ Her eyes pour into him all of her thoughts and dreams that she so desperately wishes him to see— _I still do! I still do! Can't you see!_ But he has looked down at his hands, where he sees the tremor of his pulse between his thumb and forefinger, the only outward signal that he keenly feeling as if a bullet has just been shot straight through his heart.

" _But you won't,"_ is all he can manage as his mind reels again and the ground shifts beneath his feet. He needs a steady hand—her steady hand—but that is being rapidly pulled away from him—out to sea.

" _I won't, because…I can't,"_ Mrs Hughes voice is barely containing the waver within it. _"I don't know if I've ever told you that I have a sister."_

"Of…of course,… by the sea in Lytham-St-Anne's," he blinks rapidly and tries to answer normally, but his throat is dry and that stuck fishbone feeling is back.

"That's right. Well,… _my sister Becky_ and her husband David…they have always said I should come to them when…when I am ready to give all this away," she shrugs one shoulder and an eyebrow upwards at all of the weight she carries at the Abbey. "I can see my great nieces and nephews growing up…help in the shop front if needed…" she adds with limited conviction.

Carson breathes out audibly and asks tentatively "And so…you…will go to be with family." He realises he is hovering between a question and a sad statement of fact and so he forcibly shakes himself into a clearer frame as he gruffs out "As you should…it is right that you. ..should…" he falters again and trails off helplessly.

Mrs Hughes balks at his palpable misery, but soldiers on as best she can. _"My choice_ is _simple,_ Mr Carson: when _I give up work I_ want to go where I know I will _be cared for." Please God, hear me now, Charles, please! "_ I…I _need_ to know that I will be with…people that I love…where _I_ am…loved…" Her breathing would be audibly ragged at this admission if she weren't subsisting on such a shallow intake of air. She finishes quietly, shamefully _, "I wish you very well with your house, Mr Carson - you've earned it._ _But…there is no place for me in the project…"_ It physically hurts her to say what she most fears will be true. She sees him visibly flinch at her words and prays to God that he will see through all of the plotting behind her actions tonight. It is a most paltry and underhanded way to fight for what she wants for both of them, but it is the only skill she really has to hand in this case. But it absolutely rips at her heart to see him so crestfallen and hollow— knowing that she treads not at all softly upon his dreams. " _Now I've embarrassed you,'_ she finishes pathetically.

" _Mmm?"_ He shakes himself out of his pained stupor to respond in the gentlemanly manner that he knows he should, although, in all truth, the pain is only growing inside his heart as it struggles to keep on beating as she rips herself so completely away from him. _"I-I'm not embarrassed. I'm ashamed that I've chivvied and bullied you, when if I'd had any sensitivity at all…"_

" _No, don't say that."—God, Please Charles, don't fall on your sword now!—"I've enjoyed our little dream. I-I'm the one to blame for stringing you along."_

" _Oh, never."_

She swallows heavily as she sees how easily he defends all of her actions, knows exactly what she is risking losing by pushing him away from her in the cruellest way possible right now, but she really can see no other way forward. _"Well, as I say, I hope you buy it…I hope you're able to without me."_

" _I am, but…"_

Mr Bates knocks urgently at the door and sticks his head into the room before Mrs Hughes can even think to grant him entry.

" _I've had a telegram from Mr Murray. May I use your telephone, Mr Carson? He says it's bad news."_

 _GODDAMNIT, BATES! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHOSE LIFE IS FALLING APART RIGHT NOW!_ Carson's mind screams out most uncharitably. But years of military precision in controlling his emotions in front of the staff see him swallow his rage in one full breath and he replies only with dutiful concern, " _Oh, no. I'm sorry to hear that. Be my guest_ …let me know what is required when you are done _"_ he finishes on a somewhat dull tone.

"Thank you, Mr Carson," Bates replies as he is already moving with a fast clip of his cane down towards the butler's pantry.

Carson rises stiffly from the little chair at Mrs Hughes side table, which, if truth be told, has always dug into his back. He is desperate to be away from the _atmosphere_ of this room…He feels like he cannot breathe properly. "Mrs Hughes,…you ought to go up…I will wait for Mr Bates' news…I…I need some air…" And he turns and strides out of her sitting room towards the back door as Mrs Hughes hand flies to her mouth to stifle the noise of an uncontrollable sob.

 _He never leaves without wishing me a goodnight_!

oOOo


	7. Ch 7—Demons and Goddesses of the Night

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs** _ **\- Chapter 7—Demons and Goddesses of the Night**_

 **A/N** **: Some knowledge of my headcanon via my other stories (** _ **The Acquisition of Memories**_ **and** _ **Ephemera**_ **) is probably beneficial for understanding some items mentioned in this chapter.**

 **oOOo**

Date: Late at Night Sunday 29th November 1925

Charles Carson thrusts himself out of the back servants' entrance door and only narrowly stops himself from slamming the door shut behind him with all of his might as he marches away into the dark cold night.

"Come to join me have you, Mr Carson?" the smooth tendrils of a cold voice stall him in his tracks. The gravel crunches loudly as the settling frost cracks apart when he spins on his heel to face whatever the hell else has been sent to torment him today.

Barrow is standing like a jackal beneath the back porchlight—the backlighting obscuring his eyes in deep pools of blackness as he breathes out a billowing mist of comingled smoke and cold steam. Too hot with unnamed and unspeakable wrath to shiver internally, as instinct would dictate to most, Charles barely holds back his spinning momentum and insane desire to pull back and just smack that oily smirk right onto to the other side of the man's face.

"YOU!" he snarls out sharply. "Get back inside!"

Thomas stops short of saying the line that first springs to mind that perhaps Mr Carson should take care of his aging constitution out in this cold night air, but as he spies Mr Carson's fists quivering and clenched forcibly down by his thighs, he recognises all the signs of a cornered and caged and very angry animal. The man is a truly formidable and frightening force to behold right now in the chilling silence that hangs between them. Long schooled in self-preservation, Thomas knows better than to poke at him this time around. He grinds his cigarette butt end out in the gravel with movements timed just slowly enough to finger lightly at the hair-trigger that Mr Carson is currently functioning on without having him fully explode, for it would not do to let on that the big man actually scares Thomas right now, and more than just a little.

"Right you are, Mr Carson." He breathes the last of his lung full of cigarette smoke out, then he turns smoothly on his heel and slinks back inside. _Cripes! What the bloody hell 'as got into him today?!_

Carson huffs out several breaths of steam after the door closes behind Barrow, then he spins away again and stalks further out into the darkness.

Blind as to where he is headed Carson tramps away from the Abbey huffing and trying to dislodge the crushing weight that has taken up residence somewhere between his heart and his throat. The icy air is stinging his eyes to the point of watering and his lungs struggle to allow a full breath into his body, underdressed as he is in his full evening livery of white waistcoat, tie and tails. Prudence dictates that he finds some shelter soon, so in the tumult of his anguished mind he manages to at least direct himself towards the horse stables set back behind the Abbey, settled a little way down the main rise of where the house is situated.

The contrast of temperature between the outside darkness and the inner gloom and soft animal warmth of the stables is striking, making his eyes water even more heavily until he swipes at them with his French cuffs and feels his cold onyx studded cufflinks drawing harsh lines down his cheeks. The comforting smell of hay, the leather tack hanging about the walls and even the natural organic waste of the animals makes Carson's breath hitch with the memories of a time when he would run joyfully home from school to see his old Dad and to feed the horses under Frank Carson's care with crab-apple treats picked from the hedgerows, before he'd pitch in to help muck out stalls or the like. But that was over 50 years ago and there is no one here for him now. *****

His breathing is slowing—deepening— and he can feel the set of his shoulders relaxing somewhat. Calming. He has always felt safe around the animals. Cloistered. And thank the Lord, tonight at least _they_ will not pester him or answer back. He actively turns away from his fear of his own indescribable rage and decides to quietly approach one of the stalls, where an elegant tall midnight coloured beast's flanks twitch slightly and reflects back some of the dim moonlight filtering through the upper louvres of the grand old stable.

"Here Lass. It's all right. It all right" he murmurs in an instinctively low and rumbling voice to ensure that he does not startle the animal with his unexpected nighttime presence. He reaches towards her with a steady but cautious hand and lets her nuzzle into his open palm, but sadly he is completely unprepared for ehr on the crab apple front tonight. "That's a girl," he croons as he strokes beneath her baby soft chin and cautiously steps towards to her, knowing her to be one of the flightier characters in the stables at the moment. "That's a girl, Nyx. That's it, Beauty." She butts softly at his forehead with her soft muzzle and lifts her head away a little, allowing him to step in closer. His hand reaches up to run smoothly down her sleek neck as he keeps rumbling low comforting words into her ear. "You're all right…that's it girl…you've got the right idea, haven't you, now?…"

She snuffs and lightly stamps her front hooves as she adjusts to his proximity, whickering softly to let him know that he is welcome. She swings her great head again and nudges his own head to the side as she nibbles at his lapels, likely still sensing a treat might soon be at hand. Carson feels the warmth of her earthy breath seep under his stiffened collar. So very far away from any other comfort, he lifts his second hand up to grabs onto the animal's mane, clutching onto great handfuls of the coarse strands as his forehead hits her neck and her fur soaks up his thick and silent tears.

oOOo

"Hello?...Anyone there?"

Through bleary eyes, Carson sees the jaunting yellow glow of a storm lantern wavering across the whitewashed walls and quickly swipes at his eyes on his now dust blackened cuffs. He roughly clears his throat and quickly reaches inside his jacket for a handkerchief to properly wipe the horse grime and loose hairs from his face.

"Just me, Mr Grout," ****** he calls out towards the light as he sees the head groom's age and labour bent shadow rounds through the side entrance to the big barn.

"Mr Carson?"

"Yes…I apologise if I startled you." Carson finishes composing himself and snuffles quietly into his handkerchief to clear his runny nose and the remains his cold and dusty grief. The poor light from the lantern will hopefully shield any other signs of his distress from Mr Grout.

"Takes a bit more'n a Butler to startle my old bones," the slightly younger man chuckles out as he approaches Nyx' stall and carefully hooks his lantern up and out of harm's way. And despite having to face yet another interruption, Carson decides to make the best of it, for he has always liked Philip Grout's quiet demeanour. The man never pries or asks after anything that is not his business. _Talks only of the horses…_ Which Carson knows comes with the territory of being the very best and gentlest handlers of the estate's precious bloodstock. But Phillip also has a quiet and seldom spoken wisdom about him too. It settles Carson just by being able to stand with him for a while…and listen. _Reminds me of Dad_. "But I'll not say I'm not surprised to see y' 'ere…'specially at this late hour, Mr Carson," Mr Grout states matter-of-factly as he eyes the butler in his full livery up and down and can't help but feel it is all a bit odd— _bit of a cold night to not have an overcoat, to say the least_. That said, he is used to having Mr Carson pop his head in at the stables every now and again, especially when everyone is gearing up for a big hunt… the man knows a bit about it all…and Philip Grout was a very young lad himself when he first started work as a stable boy alongside Charles Carson, a few of years before Old Mr Carson died—' _cept that he twern't so old when that all happened._ Phil always looked up to both men, really—especially Frank Carson… _the man sure knew his stuff_.

"I suppose I just needed to get out of the house for a while."

"Well I don't blame y' fuhr thaht, " Mr Grouts accent drops into his heavier North Yorkshire lilt, when he knows he doesn't need to concentrate on how he sounds to any of the grand family from the big house. "Don't know how y'stand bein' about all them yabberin' folk all day long."

"Quite...I hope I didn't wake you,…or Mrs Grout...Did I?"

"No, no. Esther is well asleep. She's well used to me b'now and won't stir 'til I get back in tonight...or the mornin' if that comes first. I was coming in to check on one of our broodmares anyways—'bout t' foal, she is."

"That's a bit late in the season isn't it?"

"Aye, 'tis…but it's our old Jilly…I think 'twill be 'er last season. She came on a bit later last year and seems to be holding onto this one a little longer'n usual."

"Do you think she'll manage it?"

"Oh aye, she's an old hand at all this now…we've had some good steady working quarter horses out'f 'er over tha yerrs…but I'll be reck'ning on putting her out to pasture once this little un's weaned."

"And what about this one?" Charles turns back to the majestic black beast who has been snuffling intermittently about the back of his collar. He pets a gentle hand at the black filly's neck again.

"Oh, Aye. Lady Mary's favourite— _Aren't y' Nyx m'gal—"_ Mr Grout reaches up towards Mr Carson's shoulder and rubs at the thoroughbred's soft nose with the back of his gnarled fingers _._ "She's a fine bit of horseflesh, this one—and no mistake…Smart, like Jilly…reliable…still a tad flighty, but I reckon she'll be the next grand dam for our racing stock. Figurin' on bringin' 'er tugether wi' Erubus cüm tha spring or summer next year. She'll be old enough b'then." _The future for Downton,_ Charles muses runs a firm hand down to her shoulder, giving a satisfying thudding slap to the solid muscles there. Mr Grout continues to speak quietly, for he never minds a _bit_ of a natter if it is about his horses. "She's a mind and will of her own though…the best ones always do …Hpph…"he chuckles out lightly, "knows where you want to go before y' even do yerself sometimes!…but she can still accept the route you might want to take to get y'both thar in the end."

Carson's hands have moved to caresses the even more velvety and soft hair that covers the animal's broad breast. He feels the powerful and constant thudding of her heart beneath his fingertips and feels hot tears unaccountably form at the corners of his eyes once.

"She is…magnificent," he murmurs softly into the sweetness of her neck.

oOOo

Much later, Carson sits ensconced in the cloistered his pantry, the coals in the fire grate smouldering low warmth as the rest of the great house slumbers above him. With fingers steepled beneath his chin, he spends the long and sleepless hours running the days perplexing events and years' worth of scenarios through the darkened passageways of his mind. The firelight flickers amber patterns off the cut crystal angles of the remains of the decanter of Margaux.

With precise and final movements he silently unlocks and slides open the top drawer of his desk. _Good God! She has been in here TOO!_ He is momentarily chagrined at her incredible presumptiveness— _Again!—_ as he lifts out two pristine white handkerchiefs that have been pressed together–two strong triangles interleaved and overlapped into a diamond shape with his monograms set such that they read _CEC_ on one _,_ whilst the partially obscured kerchief set to the right of it shows only the initials _EC._ He gently lifts up the latter one and brings it close to he is face to inhale the fresh linen breeze upon it. He fingers lightly at the threads of his name until the first _C_ of his initials unravels in a steady blue stream and all that remains are the letters _EC._ He wraps the thin blue thread around and about his fingertip until he can see a whiteness forming from a lack of blood…then he unwinds it and feels the prickling pain of constant warmth finally returning to all of his extremities on this cold and dark night _._ Hot tears prickle and recede and rise again from his eyes. _Of course, she would find her way in here…little plotter_. He imagines her soft tread—gliding in here in her satin black dress—shadowy and silent in the night and dim half-light. There is not a neatly pressed corner of his life that she does not touch _—that she cannot touch._

As the weak light of the winter morn trickles feebly through his ground-level barred windows—down into his underground lair, he marks the route forward on a sheet of his finest writing paper taken from his private stock in his locked top drawer. Then he tucks the neatly folded paper along with the kerchiefs in close to his heart—ready to start a new day.

oOOo

 *** Carson's connection to the Downton stables through his father being the former head groom (who left Charles as an orphan to the estate when Charles was about 12 years old) was first explored in my fiction _The Acquisition of Memories._**

 **** The** **horse Nyx and Mr Grout, the head groom of Downton Abbey stables, are first mentioned in my fiction _Ephemera._**

 **Thank you for all of your lovely reviews and support so far. Don't worry, the Old Boobies will get there in the end. : )**

 **Kind Regards,**

 **BorneToFlow.**


	8. Ch 8—Hither and Yon

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs.** _ **Chapter 8—Hither and Yon.**_

 **oOOo**

Time: The next day—5:15am Monday 30th November 1925

"Oh. Pardon me, Mr Carson,…G-good morning, Mr Carson… I was just coming in to set your fire for the day."

"That's quite all right, Roland. Good morning to you. As you can see, I am up early and it is already blazing. You will find Mrs Hughes' fire is also done, so I will ask that you run up to the attics for me first, before you and Daniel start the ones in the breakfast room, the small and large libraries, and Lady Grantham's sitting room. Would you please go back to the quarters and send Mr Barrow down post-haste. Then you will likely spend most of the day in the boot-room getting all of his Lordships and Mr Branson's sporting boots ready for the shooting party at Brancaster Castle. There will be a lot of carrying valet cases down to the lower luggage room with Andrew today—ready for loading into the cars early tomorrow morning as well. Now, no playing 'Strong Man' and breaking things or hurting yourself—work together with Daniel on the heaviest ones. And, don't be getting under Mrs Patmore's feet today…and make sure you eat a good breakfast."

"Yes, Mr Carson," the wide-eyed and freckle-faced Roland scurries off, still trying to wrap his early morning 13-year-old brain around exactly what 'post-haste' might mean, but knowing that it does not pay to dally when Mr Carson has set a whole raft of orders for you.

Carson breathes out a huge groaning sigh as he stands to stretch the cricks out of his neck, then he straightens his breast pocket handkerchief. _Lord above…I'm getting far too old for these wretched all-nighters…Still, there is work to be done._

oOOo

 **6:45 am**

Thomas Barrow does not exactly strut down the servant's hall towards the kitchen after seeing to Lord Grantham's early dressing this morning, prior to his trip into York today. Still, the under butler's shoulders are set more broadly than usual, and he cannot help looking down his nose a little at the underlings he has been set to direct today. But his brow does quirk with an element of consternation as to the changed circumstances of his day—a day that will see him even busier than he anticipated now that they are two men down prior to the Crawley's leaving Downton tomorrow.

"Mrs Patmore," he stops in that precise, almost boot clipping manner of his and cocks his head like a tenacious terrier ready to make a query about something that the educated observer would see as being of typically nefarious interest to him, whilst allowing his inflection to suffice as some sort of friendly greeting for the day to the cook.

"What is it, Mr Barrow?" Mrs Patmore snips out with typically harried annoyance when she pegs his nosy intent in a trice and does not even attempt to hide the rolling of her eyes. She feeds the man, so Mrs Patmore has never seen fit to be cowed by any of Thomas Barrow's antics—she knows well enough who really holds all the power in their daily transactions. "The good Lord has yet to invent a breed of chicken that can fry its own eggs so I am afraid I have to keep cooking your breakfast—if you _don't_ mind."

"Of course, Mrs Patmore," he simpers back to her, "…only…I was wondering if you knew where Mr Carson had to head off to so suddenly this morning?…and on the first train"

"Perhaps Mr Bates needed him in York to see Mr Murray with him? Lily! Are you on a slow boat to Seville?! Can you _please_ set Lady Grantham's orange juice on her tray as I asked you to? Miss Baxter ought to be down from Lady Mary's and Lady Edith's to collect it soon!" She looks up from the thick batter she is rapidly beating without appearing to show any fatigue across her formidable shoulders and upper arms and sees Mr Barrow's beady eyes expecting more. "Look…" she huffs out exasperatedly, "How in blazes would I know? I am not the Great One's ruddy keeper, am I?!" She finishes, just as she spies Mrs Hughes pale and exhausted and red-rimmed eyed personage peek around the edge of the archway into the kitchen, her hand shaking ever so slightly around a letter she is holding at hip height. She looks up from it just as Mrs Patmore finishes her blunt assessment of the morning's situation with Barrow. Mrs Patmore knows immediately that Elsie has spent a second sleepless night over her 'arrangements', or lack thereof, with Mr Carson. _Lord above—I thought they talked this all out last night!_ She sees Mrs Hughes lip starting to quiver, but the housekeeper catches it up in her teeth just in time as she wheels about and her heels click rapidly on the slates until the sound is blocked out by the turning of the key in her sitting-room door.

Mrs Patmore's mouth has dropped open a little, but she clams it shut before the smirking under butler catches it as he turns a weirdly triumphant eye towards the cook and raises one eyebrow to her.

 _"Whaat's_ going on, Mrs Patmore?" the question almost slithers from the side of his mouth.

Mrs Patmore reaches up for a long-handled copper pan hanging from a meat hook on the overhead rack and she pointedly slams it down on the main preparation bench, leaning onto the edges of it with both of her chapped and thick muscled hands and piercing Barrow with her direct, no-nonsense gaze.

"Thomas, if you'd just learnt to play with a straight bat a little more often in your life, you might just find yourself that bit closer to getting everything you've actually ever wanted."

There's not many who can whip out a line so cryptic and yet so pointed that it can stop Thomas Barrow fully in his tracks, but Mrs Patmore is oftentimes the one to do it. He sets his mouth in a grim line and then finally manages to muster a marginally smart and sneering reply.

"I didn't know you were a fan of cricket, Mrs Patmore. You _have_ been chatting with Mr Carson."

"Believe me, Thomas, when I say that _any_ game that offers a high probability of a few idiot men getting sconed by a hard object is FINE sport in my ruddy book!" It is Thomas' turn to clap his slightly gaping mouth shut just in time as Mrs Patmore finishes on a much lower and more ominous tone as she grasps the handle of her heavy-based pan in a white-knuckled grip,"…And if I hear ONE word that you have made this day any more difficult for Mrs Hughes than it needs be, you'll be finding me listed as the new opening batsman for the Abbey team! Now get on with y'! Breakfast will be ready in ten for you to preside over."

Thomas gives her his best Hall boy 'What did I ever do wrong' look and holds up his open palms in a truce. He thinks better of staying around the cook for much longer—especially given that Mr Carson had issued a similar warning about ably supporting Mrs Hughes for the final preparations for the Brancaster party while the Great One Himself is away from the house for the day. It is certainly highly unusual that Old Carson would not be stalking about with clipboard in hand for the final preparations for a family holiday. As Thomas enters the butler's pantry and adjusts some items on his daily list, he cannot help but wonder about the upper staff's terribly strange behaviours these last few days. Still, even with getting ahead on much of the packing yesterday with Mr Bates, Thomas has an extremely busy day ahead of him; and, as Mr Carson also mentioned— _quite_ forcefully—that if anything proves amiss once they reach Brancaster, it will only be on Thomas' head to fix it. So, he sits his incessantly prying curiosity onto the back burner for the moment—there is work to be done.

oOOo

Beryl Patmore taps at the Housekeepers sitting room door.

"Mrs Hughes, I thought you might like a tray this morning so that you can keep on with your work." Beryl is not sure if she actually heard a sniffle or a deep sigh in response to her greeting. _Probably both._ She is not exactly feeling up to the damage control and interference she will have to run today amongst various parties of the house. _Lord above! This is worse than when the fractious four couldn't see that they were all in love with the wrong bloomin' people…Ruddy children—the lot of 'em! I oughta get a job as an Agony Aunt in Lady Edith's paper is what I ought be doin'!...Not all of this toing and froing between the deaf, blind and elderly._

Finally, the key in the lock can be heard moving about and Mrs Hughes sequesters herself in the shadows of the door that she opens inwards to let Beryl pass into the room.

"Thank you, Mrs Patmore," comes Mrs Hughes somewhat feeble reply as she re-locks the door.

Beryl makes a point of faffing about with the tea things for longer than is truly necessary to ensure that Elsie has enough time to compose herself a little better, but when she finally looks up and catches her glassy shattered eyes, she cannot help herself.

"Oh Elsie,…Deary…Come on, come here…" and she wraps her solid bulky arms around her friend who seems so very waif-like at the moment that she might just crumble and disappear like a piece of paper ash. Elsie sobs quietly into Beryl's shoulder until she slowly and naturally calms to a few sniffles, then Beryl sets her back a little to draw the edge of her apron up and offers it to Elsie to clean her face on. At least the gesture draws a tiny hiccoughing laugh from Elsie in her embarrassment. "Come on, Elsie, come and sit down and try to eat something… Here's some tea for you…"

"You shouldn't have, Beryl…What about all your work?"

"Oh, I think I most certainly should have…Daisy is fine with it...and I might just as easily ask about your schedule for the day, hmm? Although, I can at least reasonably assure you that Mr Barrow will steer clear of any trouble today."

" Hmph…well…likewise, Madge is well underway with all that needs accomplishing today." Elsie pauses to sip her tea, and it's slow trickling burn down her throat is the most heavenly feeling she can recall having these last two days. "Huuugh…" She sighs out long. "But that lad, Archie from the grocer's is skulking about here longer than I would prefer each time he drives up with a delivery. I am afraid she might be yet another housemaid I'll be losing…never to be replaced."

"…Well…there's no accounting for who we love now…is there?"

"Noh," Elsie barely whispers.

"Can you tell me what he wrote? It's not like him to not be here on the day before the family ships out."

"I know…You can read it for yourself if you like…I'm sure it is all just me being a bit silly and overtired, is all," she states disconsolately as she hands over the folded fine parchment.

"Maybe you are...So,…I take it you did speak together about your arrangements last night?" Beryl just has to ask before she unfolds the latest piece in this saga.

"Yes…" Elsie squeaks out, "…and I hurt him quite brutally in the saying of it," she hiccoughs out another sob and a tear drops into her teacup.

"Oh, it can't be all that bad,…surely…what did you tell him?"

"Just that…that…it would be best for me to go to my sister's when I do retire…like you were saying…really—t-to b-be…with th-those I love…m-most."

"Oh…well…I…phewff…" Beryl breathes out, not entirely sure what to say, but understanding much better why a man like Charles Carson would seek some distance and privacy if his pride has been wounded thus. She reads the short note in the hopes that she might better navigate these choppy seas of someone else's love life. _Agony Aunt—My hat!_

 _oOOo_

 _Be not alarmed, Mrs Hughes, on receiving this letter and apprehending my sudden absence from The Abbey on a day as busy as today will be, that I write with any intention of paining you. Suffice to say, the views you expressed to me last night have been clearly understood and I accept your desires for your retirement years to be spent only with those you love best and who love you in return with equal measure. Know that my own fondest desire for you is that you will always feel protected and content. And my only wish is to be able to continue to enjoy the steadiness of your very dear friendship in the time that we have left together._

 _I am afraid that some urgent business has arisen that I can only attend to in person in York today. As you would be aware, by the time you receive this letter, Mr Bates also has urgent business to attend to at Mr Murray's offices. I feel it important that I accompany him to offer any support that I can, given that I am also headed into the city. I can assure you that Mr Barrow will be far too busy today to cause any excess grief to you or the understaff, and that he will have everything well in hand ready for his trip away with the family tomorrow._

 _I aim to return from York on the twilight train and as ever, I look forward to sharing dinner with you in the evening._

 _I only add, God bless you._

 _CEC_

oOOo

 _Oh, sweet Lord above! If even she is too darned obtuse to read between these clear lines, maybe she deserves to ruddy well suffer for a bit!_ Mrs Patmore rants internally.

"Well? …You see?" Elsie chokes out.

"Yes…I actually do see, Elsie…blind old bat that I am…Oh, _Deearr-y_ …"she sighes out long, "…Just…find your space today…I'll run what interference I can…Miss Baxter is not one to tattle if you spend the day quietly with her finalising Lady Grantham's and the young Lady's packing…I am sure all of this is going to start looking better by the evening…" Elsie just looks up from her wringing hands and peers uncertainly into Beryl's eyes as she chews at her bottom lip—looking for all the world like a forlorn 13-year-old lass whose first schoolyard crush has left town for good. "Look," Beryl states firmly, "I've said it before—as stubborn a stickler for his own way and the _blessed_ rules as he is—that he's a good and honest man, Charles Carson...and he always comes around in the end…he is your friend, Elsie...don't lose that…and he _is_ worried for you…Just…just trust him a little,...Hmm?"

oOOo


	9. Ch 9—Of Friends and Colleagues

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs.** _ **Chapter 9—Of Friends and Colleagues**_

 **A/N** **: Thank you for all of the lovely reviews in support of this fiction. I am glad that so many people are enjoying it. Thanks especially to all of my guest reviewers, whom I cannot respond to personally via PM.**

 **Kind Regards,**

 **BorneToFlow**

 **oOOo**

Time: Monday evening 6:00pm 30th November 1925

Charles Carson quietly pushes through the back servant's entrance door and pauses for a moment in the alcove before hanging up his hat and overcoat—just to inhale deeply the warmth and familiar smells and sounds of his home. He knows the level of cluttering about and smoother quick detailing movements emanating from the kitchen means that dinner is poised and at the ready to be sent up. _Ah! The dulcet tones of Mrs Patmore's ribald poetry of the management of the semi-competent,_ he smiles to himself. He knew the family upstairs would aim for an early night tonight in readiness for the first trains north tomorrow, but he does somehow need to catch the cook's ear, even if only for a brief moment (and hopefully without raining a litany of extra horrors down upon all their heads). _One must always travel in hope._ He girds himself and strides towards the kitchen archway.

"Good evening, all."

"Oh! So, he hath returned!" Comes Mrs Patmore's typically pithy welcome as she finalises the garnishing of the appetisers and sends Andrew off with merely a pointed gesture of her head towards the stairs.

"Yes,…I wonder if I might have a word, Mrs Patmore?"

"Well now is hardly the time!"

Carson holds his hand up in acquiescence.

"Granted, Mrs Patmore. I merely meant when you could spare a moment…At your earliest convenience" he adds, almost as an afterthought, for he does not want her to think this is a matter that can actually wait until after the dessert course is served.

"Pfhhh… "Mrs Patmore breathes out long, accepting that her long day as Agony Aunt to the totally inept in love is far from over yet. "Right you are, Mr Carson…" as she shakes her head a little and watches the back of his broad frame disappears into his pantry. She feels a strange mixture of trepidation for just how this evening will play out for her two friends. But there is also a certain amount of glee that Thomas Barrow's nose will be put a little out of joint now that Mr Carson is back early enough to preside over the downstairs dinner as he normally would, thus relegating the under-butler to his standard place. _Still…Thomas has kept his nose well and truly to the grindstone today, and not caused any trouble, so I can't fault the lad completely…I'll make sure he gets a larger portion of the casserole tonight._ "Ah, now Mr Molesley, if you could set the tray ready to take up the soupe en croute, they'll not be long with the canapés and I want these straight up before the tops collapse," she states as she peers into the oven to check the pastry topped sweet onion soup.

"It smells lovely, Mrs Patmore," is Mr Molesley's glazed-eyed replied.

"Right…well…thank you." Mrs Patmore always stumbles a little at the unsolicited and unexpected praise that sometimes comes her way in these moments. "Well, as luck would have it, I've enough set aside for our own dinner later, you'll be pleased to know."

"Well that's something to look forward to then, isn't it?" he brightens.

"Let's 'ope so," is her somewhat cryptic reply.

oOOo

Mrs Patmore taps at the frame of Mr Carson's open door.

"You wanted a word, Mr Carson."

"Ah. Yes…thankyou, Mrs Patmore, for me sparing a moment." He stands and rounds his desk while gesturing for her to close the door behind her and then asks in a somewhat furtive voice. "Uhh…How is Mrs Hughes today? I am sorry that I had to leave before I saw her."

"Well…she received your note if that's what you're worried about."

"And…she appeared…all right…with the news?"

"Well…Mr Carson,…to be perfectly frank…and as much as I am aware of the contents of that letter…" Charles Carson's eyebrow shoot up and almost hit his hairline and he is about to start blustering incoherently when Mrs Patmore manages to intercept him. "Now, now. Keep y' hair on…I didn't pry—Mrs Hughes saw fit to have me read it is all…but I am afraid to say, that she may not have received the… _fullness_ of your message…as you may have intended it."

"W-what do you mean?"

"Let's just say that she…is a little…fragile…at the moment, Mr Carson."

"Fragile? Has Mr Barrow been throwing his weight about too much?"

"No. No. None o' that. You may rest assured that he had far too much to handle without you here to be making any trouble…and I'd like to think that my less than idle threat to, effectively, 'have his guts for garters' if he _should_ set a foot wrong with Mrs Hughes today seems to have been heeded.

"Hmm..." Carson rumbles out, "At least we appear to be singing from the same playbook on that front, Mrs Patmore."

"Hmm…Yes, well,…I am afraid that may not be the case with Mrs Hughes and _your_ …intentions, Mr Carson." Carson just looks quizzically at her, and his hand is still clenching and unclenching around that nebulous and uncommon description of Mrs Hughes being… a little _fragile_. Mrs Patmore really has no time to be trying to soothe away all of his worries and discomfort right now, she has work to get done—even though Daisy will no doubt manage well enough without her, but she has been playing that card too often these last days and even Daisy is giving her some queer looks trying to work out what on Earth the jig is with the upper staff at the moment. "Look…I'll not pry into your business today in York—Lord knows I'm not the right person to be keeping a confidence of any delicacy that you might want kept, Mr Carson—but…I think I have much more of an inkling about your plans than Mrs Hughes has managed to cotton onto today."

"But was I not clear in my letter?"

"Not entirely…at least…not to someone who spent a sleepless night fretting over how she felt that she had hurt you."

"Grrmmph…" Mr Carson shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot, suddenly very aware of his proximity to another person and that they are rapidly moving into…very _personal_ territory for him. _Well, I was hurt!...I am…hurt…but…but…_

"And...perhaps not for someone who has yet to fully understand just how long property settlement contracts can take when solicitor's need to be checking all the way back into the bleeding Doomsday Book to cross all of their ' _t_ 's' and dot all of their silly little ' _i_ 's'."* Mrs Patmore stares intently at Mr Carson's slightly averted face to try to read his eyes. She soon pegs that she is actually on the money with her assumptions about the business Mr Carson had to attend to today in York. _Lord above that'll be costing him a pretty penny to fast-track! And with Murray!—His Lordship's own solicitor! Well, he don't ever do things by 'alves, does he?._ Carson sees her affirming nod and they silently agree to say no more about it. _Good,_ thinks Mrs Patmore, _I knew the old goober had it in 'im…He just wants to do things right…set them up secure-like for their future first._ "Well Mr Carson, I'll not tell y' how t' run your life…but…just…tread softly with Mrs Hughes for a while yet…She'll come around."

Carson nods with a strange level of curtness grown out of his discomfort that he is so very transparent to some people when it comes to his innermost feelings and the nature of his actions. But his movements also belie his utter consternation—that Mrs Hughes is not yet numbered amongst those who can read him truly. _Even after all we have been planning together!_ He is somewhat flabbergasted…and annoyed, still,…and quite worried, really—that he might still bungle all of this up with her quite horribly. He clears his throat heavily. "Yes,…of course, Mrs Patmore…don't let me keep you." But just as she reaches his door he feels the need for Mrs Patmore to understand something more…something important, but instead he tumbles out with a relative inanity about the household staff. "Oh…just one more thing, Mrs Patmore…I do hope that Roland and Daniel did not get underfoot with you today…I expressly asked them not to…I know how they bother you sometimes—always after more food than is their due."

"Oh, no, Mr Carson, they nary had a minute spare, what with the way that Thomas was driving them today…And they're good lads, really…hard workers both o'them…and I don't mind 'em around so much as all that."

"Oh…good…good…I am glad to hear that."

"They'd be glad to hear it from you as well, Mr Carson, I am sure."

"Grhmm…Very good…let me know when the servant's dinner is ready, then."

"As always, Mr Carson."

Carson shifts somewhat stiltedly back towards his desk, with the intention of sitting down and looking over the remains of the lists for the imminent family trip that Thomas has laid out on his desk. He runs his fingertips down the side edge of his desk and onto the edges of his blotter until his compulsion to add something to this conversation proves too strong. "And…and thank you,…Mrs Patmore…" He finally looks up to try to catch the cook's concerned gaze before she exits, "…Beryl…Thank you for being such a friend to Mrs Hughes," he finishes quietly.

Beryl stops with her hand on the doorknob, blinks rapidly to clear her watery eyes and swallows the strange lump that has formed in her throat at being addressed by the Great One in such a familiar way. Yet, she does remember back to how he held her hand and was with her when she was so very scared for her own future—before her cataracts were fixed. But she shakes the heavy feeling down a little as she begins to swing the door open. And, as exhausting as all of this palaver has been for her, she softly murmurs her reply as she turns to meet his eye.

"Well,…Mr Carson,…when this all finally does come to fruition—and I have faith that it will—I will be the very first to say that it has been my pleasure." Then she squares her sturdy shoulders and shuffles out the door—ready to face the next onslaught in the kitchen.

oOOo

Later Mr Carson catches up with Mrs Hughes to offer his apologies for being away from the house so suddenly, and so as to inquire about her day. And although the short conversation is conducted with their standard level of professionalism and ultimate propriety, and he is promptly forgiven for any inconvenience he may have caused, he cannot help but notice how very pale and wan Mrs Hughes appears. It makes his heart ache horribly and it requires every ounce of his self-control to prevent himself from wrapping her up into his arms, close to his heart. But he simply must swallow down the instinct so as not to embarrass or offend her. Even so, he manages to take his leave of her in a manner that he later kicks himself for, for it being so very…perfunctory.

oOOo

 **8:00pm**

At the beginning of servants' dinner, Mr Carson makes a point of thanking Mr Barrow and all of his footmen and hall boys, in particular, for working so diligently when he had to be away from the house at such short notice. And then, during the Grace he offers before their every evening meal he feels compelled to offer some additional and carefully chosen words of thanks for the gift of sharing good food with supportive colleagues who aim to see us all traverse more easily our busy working days. And, as he does so, Carson again catches the glassy, almost tear-filled eyes of a very weary looking Mrs Hughes seated at his right hand. But, it does not do to dwell upon her visage and embarrass her in the noticing, so he instead trains a solid gaze towards Thomas and sharply nods his approval for the man's best efforts today. _For, even with Thomas Barrow, one must still always try to travel in hope._

Once their pudding is finished, Carson dismisses everyone for the evening. And as he makes his way to his pantry to ensure all is in order and to consult in a final review with Mr Barrow of all the last details for the mass exodus tomorrow, his eyes do follow Mrs Hughes as she makes her lacklustre way towards her parlour. But he must quickly shake off the feelings of despair and rising concern for her wellbeing for the moment—he has work to do.

oOOo

"Ah…now, Mr Barrow, thank you for joining me. I am very pleased that all seems to be well in hand for tomorrow."

"As, of course, it would be, Mr Carson" comes the tight-lipped and smarmy reply.

 _Urrgh…Sweet Lord above! Can the man not ever take some simple praise with at least SOME good grace?_

"Indeed…Well then, Mr Barrow, if you would like to look over the final day list for tomorrow, and you are content that everything is as it should be, I will leave the final locking of the upper levels to you tonight. I will leave my pantry open for you to sort the keys and lock it up as well. Now…I am sure you will not want any of the footmen and hall boys too tired to work quickly on the loading of the cars early tomorrow morning, so I will also leave you to ensure all and sundry retire for the evening at a reasonable hour. Please assure those that will be remaining here, that Mrs Hughes and I will arrange some extra leisure time for them once the family is off and the deep cleaning of the house is well underway…and, as for those going with you…well…at least they will have some time to relax on the train journey up. Here are some extra funds to purchase lunches and tea and cakes from the dining car for them. Is there anything else required?"

"No, Mr Carson. I believe all is well in order, thank you."

"Right." Carson states firmly. "I will leave you to it then. I shall be retiring early."

 _One can only hope,_ Thomas thinks with a grizzly longing.

"Right you are Mr Carson. Good Night," is his controlled reply, but for some reason, Thomas does feel compelled to add in less harsh tones, "Please wish Mrs Hughes a good evening for me when you see her." He feels almost embarrassed about relaying the message through Old Carson, but Thomas could not help but notice the lady's somewhat low demeanour today…and she has helped him in the past, and more than once, when he has been feeling as low as he ever could, and…well…maybe he does just want to play a straight bat when it comes to Mrs Hughes. _There's not been many that have been good to me, but she is one of them._ Carson just cocks him a quizzical eyebrow and tries to believe the man means no harm by it, especially given the unseemly display of his own fraught emotions that Thomas was privy to last night out in the back courtyard. Carson cannot contain that niggling fear that Barrow may be scheming to use it all against him, or worse still, use it against Mrs Hughes in some despicable and, as yet, unnameable future. He absolutely will not have Mrs Hughes harmed by any of Thomas' underhanded machinations. Carson eyes him like a falcon.

"I will," is his eventual and prudent reply for the moment. "Good night, Mr Barrow." And he strides out of his pantry to go and see the lady in person.

oOOo

When he taps at Mrs Hughes door, sherry decanter tray in hand, there is no immediate reply, so he quietly pushes the door open only to have his heart catch in his chest. He quickly and silently pushes the door to and places the tray onto Mrs Hughes' side table. Then turns back to observe his love from afar and with such a painful longing in his heart that his breathing actually seems to have stopped. _She is...so very…pretty…and unguarded_ …Draped, as she is, across the blotter on her desk, her head resting onto her upper arm as if it had previously been propped up in her hand on a wedged bent elbow and it has dropped and sunk down with the heaviness of an exhaustion that could not even jolt her awake. _Her skin looks…warm_. He aches to touch it with his fingertips…just as lightly as the soft glow of the sconce lights and the flickering of firelight from the grate do—highlighting her skin to a subtle peach blush. A few stray tendrils of hair have come loose from her coiled and pinned up braids and are forming a light halo about her head. _Elsie,_ his heart whispers, and some tears shoot at the corners of his eyes, when he spies her outstretched hand of the arm that pillows her head. It is resting over the folded note that he had left for her this morning— so very many hours before. _Oh, Elsie…_ He just abhors that she has been hurting…and that he has been the cause.

So as not to wake her just yet, Charles silently glides about the room to put it all in order for the night, just as she would have done so herself, if his only his own actions…and perilous inaction, had not led her to this place of utter exhaustion. He feels it all keenly himself—after his own sleepless night and long travels today. He feels old and foolish, but he must continue on.

He starts with carefully banking her fire and putting the firescreen in place. Then he takes down from the shelf above her little side table a small lidded crystal bowl that he gifted her quietly for her last milestone birthday, without ever letting on that he recognised it was her sixtieth. He has long heard the Dowager extolling the virtues of no man ever being fully cognisant of any lady's true age. Then he fishes inside his pocket for the small bag of handmade chocolate coated croquants with which to refill it. a small luxury he purchased them for her today from a specialist confectioner's shop in York, knowing that they are her favourites—a duet mix with an equal amount of soft-centred Scottish milk toffee fudge, and the harder nut toffee praline centres. Next, he switches off the wall sconce lights and, finally, he turns towards her little desk. He gently lifts his note from her limp fingers and places into the top drawer of her desk, that she might read it again one day with fresh eyes and then better understand him. Then he gently lifts one of the chains of her chatelaine and ensures that their innermost lives remain securely hidden and locked away. He decides then to pen one other very short note and folds it into his breast pocket before he gently wakes her.

"Mrs Hughes," he whispers, saddened somewhat by the necessity of having to wake her at all, but she cannot possibly sleep comfortably down here. "Mrs Hughes" he tries again in a slightly more robust low rumble—But it is to no avail until he tries a third time and couples it with the resting of his broad hand upon her forearm. "Mrs Hughes, it's time to go up to the attics, I am afraid."

"Hu? Wh-? Oh! M-Mr Carson…" she jolts awake. "I-I'm s-sorry must have dropped off there for a moment.' And she sits fully upright, looking decidedly woozy for a moment, by Mr Carson's view of it, anyway. He keeps his steadying hand on her forearm as Mrs Hughes use her free hand to clumsily ensure her hair is all tidy. Then she pats lightly about her face, hoping it is not showing up crease line marks from resting on her own sleeve…and that she has not done something mortifyingly embarrassing like drooled in her sleep.

 _She is so very beautiful,_ is all that Charles can fathom. And when she appears to be composed, Mr Carson suggests quietly, "Mrs Hughes, please allow me to escort you up to the quarters. You must rest properly tonight."

She feels dizzy with fatigue…and with his unexpected proximity. She feels like her voice is not even her own.

"Yes, Mr Carson. Thank you…" is all she manages to murmur out.

Carson straightens and offers her his steadying left arm for the second time in as many days, this time not caring that anyone will see them…for he is sure the whole house has pegged to some degree or another that Mrs Hughes is not as well as they are accustomed to and that his assistance is not unwarranted today in order to see her upstairs.

"Come" is his soft directive as he switches off her desk lamp and they move to leave the room only to face the next mountainous climb that will eventually see them to their desired destination.

oOOo

On the way up the backstairs in the gloom of bare-bulbed stairwell lights, Mrs Hughes does stumble on more than one occasion, and each time, Mr Carson whips an instinctive right hand across the front of his own body and grasps firmly at her enfeebled hand resting upon his forearm. On the third such occurrence, he speaks softly near her ear "Mrs Hughes, please…you must allow me to support you better", and he gently manoeuvres her so that his supporting left arm surrounds her, his hand resting at her gripping lightly at her waist so that she is nestled into his side, her sleepy head upon his shoulder and his right arms is still set across his body to firmly hold at her near elbow and forearm. "That's it,…nearly there." _She is so soft,…and...and cosy…_ To hold her thus feels like the culmination of so very many of his dreams and it makes him feel sure—as he has never been so sure of anything before— that he does not ever want to give this up.

But they inevitably reach the doors that separate the men's from the women's quarters and he must relinquish his hold on her.

"Mrs Hughes, here, do you think you can stand steady for yourself?…Use the wall…That's it…now, I am just going to unclip your chatelaine so that I can open the doors more easily. She nods hazily from her fugue state and he turns cautiously to face her and moves closer until he has his fingers on the belt band of her dress and is toying at the clasp of her intricately wrought chatelaine clip. It is the most intimate thing he has ever done with a lady and he cannot breathe, let alone help his fingers from trembling at the light feathering contact he is making with her soft hip, even as it is protected by the rigid bones of her…her…undergarments. _Oh my sweet Lord! You cannot think of such...things, Charles Carson._

He manages to free the keys and quickly sets to seeing Mrs Hughes into her room. He seats her on the edge of the bed and the softness of her eiderdown seems to immediately suck the last of her energy from her, drawing down into a prone position. He quickly grasps at her upper arm to keep her upright just long enough to be able to use his free hand to turn back the covers a little, then he is able to guide her gently down onto the sheets. He stalls for a moment at the sight of her torpid body twisted in an uncomfortable manner, with her legs still hanging of the side of the bed…and her black court shoes still on. He cannot leave her like that…but…but he cannot seem to force his brain into a space that knows how to adequately, or even _properly_ , deal with the situation. He is struggling to breathe again and so he quickly leaves the room.

 _Deliver the letter…deliver the letter…_ His heart is racing on this repetition of the plan that seemed so very reasonable when he first set about escorting Mrs Hughes up to her room. Now everything seems ashen and humid all at once within his mind. He pauses outside Mrs Patmore's door and bends quickly to slip the note underneath it for her to find when she comes up shortly.

 _Dear Mrs Patmore,_

 _I am afraid that I must entreaty you for your help, once more, and ask that you please check on Mrs Hughes before you retire this evening. I fear that she was in a state of such exhaustion when I saw her up to the quarters that she may not have been able to adequately or comfortably attire herself for a night conducive to good rest._

 _With thanks,_

 _Mr Carson.  
_

As he rises from his crouched position near the door, the change in blood pressure to his head makes him feel even more unsteady and he leans heavily with a supporting hand against the hallway wall. After some deep head clearing breaths, he forcefully pushes himself upright and silently makes his way back into Mrs Hughes room, for he feels he must at least remove her shoes and settle her more comfortably under the eiderdown, lest she catch a chill.

His fingers fumble with the buckle straps on her black court shoes and he fears that he will wake Mrs Hughes and appal her horribly with his presence, alone in her boudoir...with the door closed. _Lord above! Why are there TWO buckles on each!_ He kneels forward on one knee beside her bed and braces his stance until he finally manages all of the fastenings and gently slides the shoes from her feet, placing them neatly side by side beneath the side of her bed. His breathing is purposefully shallow throughout, merely puffs through his mouth lest the heady sweet scent of the fresh linens where she sleeps should prove overwhelming and actually cause him to swoon—for it is an intoxicating and perilously dangerous perfume.

Next, he is faced with actually touching Mrs Hughes black be-stockinged feet in order to lift them up onto the mattress and attempt to make her resting position more comfortable. He tentatively cradles an ankle in each of his hands and begins manoeuvring her legs, but as he adjusts his grip a little, the black sheen of even her heavier winter stocking just stops his heart completely for a second. He can feel the hard rise of her inner ankle bone and it is all so terribly untoward of him—to know of her in such a way, when she cannot offer him her permission. _Her-ank-le-bone-Her-ank-le-bone-Her-ank-le-bone,_ his heart kicks into life again across this rapid tattoo beating in his addled mind. He must… _Must-move-a-way-Move-a-way-Move-a-way._ He efficiently finds the edge of her eiderdown and draws it about her shoulders and tucking neatly under the edge of the mattress to prevent it slipping off. Then he straightens up to leave but finds he just cannot help himself he is drawn nearer to her, for she has instinctively pulled her arms out above the covers and turned a little to the side to snuggle into the comfort of her warm bed, her delicate hands clasping some of the fabric between them and holding it to her breast—almost in a position of prayer. Cosseted. It fills him with a sudden and deep reverence—that she is finally sleeping contentedly…that he has somehow helped to protect and provide her with the space to do so. _Dear Lord, please keep her safe…Let…Let her know how she is loved._ He offers up his own evening prayer and then he delicately brushes a loosened strand of hair from her cheek— _so soft—_ and places it gently behind her ear.

"Good night, Mrs Hughes. Have pleasant dreams."

" 'ni- _i_ ght Charle-szz"

His heart stops in his chest once more and he almost floats his way out of her room as her sleepy soft words spin around and about his brain—over and over repeating the way that she said his Christian name, so very softly, and perhaps for the first time ever.

He stops one last time at her doorway before he leaves, and spools the chains of her chatelaine around and about in a neat circle on her dresser and he uses the fingertip that touched her cheek just a moment ago to trace and smooth over the intricate filigree patterning of the clasp of the keys to his heart.

And once he in his room, freshly pyjamaed, his nightly kneeling prayers all said, all safely tucked up in his bed, Charles Ernest Carson reaches for the silver frame she gifted him all of those years ago. He gazes at the enlargement image from of part of a works photograph that he made up soon after their day at the beach—of them together, always standing side-by-side—but that he has kept locked safely in his dresser drawer each day, only to be gazed upon at night and sat upon his bedside table until the first morning light. He touches his fingertip to the image of her smiling cheek and smooths it lightly atop the mere sliver of glass and nebulous grey ether that is all that still separates them, and he whispers his own regular evening salutation to her before sleep finally captures him each night: _Goodnight, Elsie—My Sweetest Love._

oOOo

 *** A/N: Some brief research suggests that that due to the convoluted history of the UK, property ownership and transference laws are a complex and time-consuming business that seems to require the work of solicitors to unravel before settlement between vendors and buyers is reached. I don't know if that is still the case today, but I am assuming it was the case back in the early 20th century. This also would have been very new ground for members of the working class to traverse, as land ownership appears to have mainly been the preserve of the aristocracy and very well-to-do only prior to WW1.**

 **BTF.**


	10. Ch 10—Democratically Scandalous (Pti)

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs** _ **. Chapter 10—Democratically Scandalous (Pt. i.)**_

 **A/N** **: The delay in updating, as you may well have guessed, is because work is now back in full swing for me. Throw in my child's dance/high school auditions processes, a wedding, and an Irish funeral and wake and I am afraid time has run away from me! BUT, I will continue to do what I can. This chapter is quite long and it is taking me a while to finish. As such, I have decided to publish it in two parts with the hope that it will push me through the home straight of it a little more hastily.**

 **I have also wondered whether a few of 'my darlings' herein ought to have been killed off before publishing it. However, areas of dialogue in this do allow me to build a background character and story world that will eventually beef up my yet-to-be-published post-retirement adventures with Chelsie and Co.—so I will leave the sections in. Hopefully, the story rollicks along well enough with all of these ideas left in there. I have also left them in because I think Mrs Patmore's story arc and emotional wellbeing deserves a proper and respectful seeing to. I hope you enjoy it.**

 **We are still a little way off from the proposal scene, but after this mega 2-part chapter, I think I might be able to time hop a little more away from these three to four intensive days for Chelsie set in early December 1925-ish (I have now decided!).**

 ***Punctuated and italicised dialogue is drawn from JF S.5. canon.**

 **oOOo**

Time: Tuesday, December 1st 1925. 9:30 am

Mrs Patmore walks with greater leisure than she has been able to do in recent memory—down the short distance of the hallway from Mrs Hughes' sitting room towards the main archway entrance of the kitchen, having just returned the store cupboard key to that lady's unattended desk. The family set off well over an hour ago; all have been fed and watered; and, with so many of the remaining house staff away to Brancaster, any meals for the next week will be small and simple. In fact, once Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson are content with the beginnings of the deep cleaning of items about the house that do not get a regular seeing to, no doubt many of the hall boys, scullery maids and younger housekeeping staff will be sent off to visit their families before Christmas arrives with all of its flurrying busy-ness. The only consideration running through Beryl's head at the moment is her plans for a small dinner tonight for the remaining upper staff in the house. _A soiree…of sorts—ha! A right-regular society madam I am!_ And Beryl _is_ rather pleased with her menu selections, which will include at least one favourite for each of the people she hopes will be able to share the table… _Now…to convince Mr Carson of the value of it all,_ she muses as she enters the kitchen and onto the beginnings of a conversation.

" _So, Daisy, what are you working at while they're away?"_ Joseph Molesley asks with genuine interest and some small hope that he may be of assistance with the girl's studies.

" _I haven't decided yet."_

" _You don't sound very keen,"_ Joseph responds with a quizzically furrowed brow. To him, several days free of the family with ample extra time to be reading and contemplating history, life, the universe and…well…everything, really, and not worrying over which foot he may put wrong next in front of other people, is Joseph's idea of utter bliss.

" _To be honest, sometimes I'm not sure I should go on with it. I mean, what am I trying to prove?"_

 _Gawd! And my Old Man always says I vacillate too much about everything in life!_ Joseph silently muses, _Daisy blows so hot and cold it's a wonder the ovens don't go out whenever she's near!... Hey! Not bad that line…I should remember that one._

"Lord above! _We're not having another crisis, are we?"_ Mrs Patmore grouses, feeling thoroughly tired of hearing everyone else's woes after, yet again, having to chase about trying to call the merry jig between the Housekeeper and the Butler into some sort of order while also dealing with her own heated physical changes overnight. All of it is making her feel simultaneously a little sluggish and bit peevish. _A peevish slug—Lord above!_

" _No...But the more I think about it, the more I wonder how realistic are my plans. Wouldn't it make more sense now to get on with my life?"_

"Uuurgh!" is all Mrs Patmore can muster before she turns about and makes a split-second decision to go see how The Other Half ruddy well lives for a change.

 _oOOo_

Mrs Hughes sweeps into the main library—austere and brilliant—a strange combination of the Goddesses Nike and Hestia. As in a chariot borne forth by the northern winds of Boreas, her underlings proclaim her glorious return with a simultaneous flourish, flick and lofting of white sheets that float down dreamily to cover her domestic sphere with a drift of winter cleansing.

 _Gawd…_ is all that Mrs Patmore can think as she quietly traipses through the main library door to watch the unfolding spectacle, gazing with undiminished awe, even after all of these years, at the Abbey's upper levels. _And she hath returned,_ Beryl thinks proudly _,_ for Mrs Hughes certainly cuts an impressive figure when she is ably directing and controlling all of her minions inside such very grand apartments.

" _Mrs Patmore, what are you doing in here?"_ said housekeeper states with a general air of brightness that Mrs Patmore has not seen in her for possibly close to two weeks.

" _Oh, I came up for a bit of air. It's nice to get your head above ground for five minutes."_ Beryl replies as she gazes up at the lofty and ornate ceilings above her as she continues to ponder inwardly: _L_ _eave the heat of the kitchen…and the trials of Loves Labours…well…perhaps not 'lost'…but at least caught up somewhere in a hedge maze. Bah!… getting silly and sentimental AND waxing ruddy lyrical now—ye daft apeth, Beryl Ann Patmore!_ Still, the last few times that Beryl has been called to His Lordship's lofty presence in the library, she has either been so self-consciously nervous or has been in tears upon entering or leaving the space due to her own trials of health and other familial concerns, that it has, to Beryl's mind, always seemed as if she is climbing out of the trenches and entering a warzone in a foreign land. It is a blessed relief right now to just be able to have the time to breathe…and look about at the sheer beauty of it all. She sighs deeply. "Anyway, Mrs Hughes, I am glad to see you looking so well rested today," she manages to say without the maids overhearing the implicit enquiry about Mrs Hughes less than steady presentation to the world yesterday.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Patmore. I did rest rather better last night, all things considered." Elsie has yet to fully register why she should actually be feeling so much better today, given that her knowledge of Mr Carson's state of mind and heart since her harsh rejection of a possible future together with him is still rather limited and confused. _It is quite a wonder what a decent night's sleep can do, though,_ she considers.

"And I suppose I would like to extend an invitation of sorts to you, Mrs Hughes."

"Oh?"

"Yes,…you see, we won't have so many of us in the servant's hall tonight, what with all the young'uns heading off to their parent's after the day's work…so I thought that maybe we could do things a bit differently—share dinner, just a few of us, at the round table in the kitchen…something as little less…formal…I was thinking."

"Well, that sounds like a novel idea. Why indeed not?"

"So, will you extend the invitation to Mr Carson, then?"

"What? You mean—drag him along kicking and screaming?"

"Well…I suppose so…if that is what it takes," Beryl states pragmatically and smiles at Mrs Hughes lightly, imagining the strange logistics involved if that version of events were to be taken literally.

"I'll see what I can do…"

"Good…thank you…I'll see to asking the others. Shall we make it 7 o'clock tonight…give the young ones plenty of time to get off on the trains and the like?"

"Right you are, Mrs Patmore. And is it just light sandwiches today for luncheon?"

"Aye, and some soup leftovers in a crock, so they may come and go as they are ready if you please."

"Good, good… I will just let them set their own twenty minutes to nip down for a bite when they are hungry."

"Ooo…don't let Mr Carson hear you say that…scandalous, Mrs Hughes…quite scandalous!"

"Quite," Mrs Hughes smiles back lightly with a glint of good-humoured friendliness edging its way back into their exchanges.

"What's this latest scandal I hear, Mrs Hughes?" Charles Carson asks gruffly as he glides purposefully towards them, somehow managing to quirk one brow in a curious manner while the other is raised with his requisite butler-ish disapproval and concern. Elsie turns her smile to him and just enjoys that particular vision of the man without giving it much conscious thought.

"Aaand… I think that is my cue to leave," Mrs Patmore states as she about-faces and heads out of the main library and across the great hall towards the green baize door. Elsie smiles lightly after her friend before turning to address Mr Carson.

"Och, it's nothing to fret about, Mr Carson," Mrs Hughes states and Charles immediately notices the slight relaxing of her brogue now that the family has left. "Just that the staff can set their own time to nip down for a bite to eat for lunch. Mrs Patmore intends to keep some platters stocked on the servant's hall table—nice and simple.

"Hmm…unorthodox…but _hardly_ the greatest scandal the house has ever faced."

"Quite right," Mrs Hughes replies lightly "…Well, I must be off to see how the girls are faring with turning over the main bedrooms."

"Right you are, Mrs Hughes," and Carson watches her elegant figure waltz away from him with a satisfying clip of her heels on the parquetry, and he is far too enamoured by her more sprightly manner this morning to hear the latest of her quiet mumblings and plottings-away to herself.

"Hmm…I suppose we'll just wait until tonight for the full scandal to manifest…"

 _oOOo_

 **Time** **: 7:00pm. At the kitchenmaids dinner table**

" _Oh, this is very nice, Mrs Patmore. Quite a treat."_

" _Well, the cat's away, so we mice might as well play a little,"_ she states blithely in reply to Mrs Hughes. Then Beryl sees the gruff discomfort in Mr Carson's demeanour as he follows the housekeeper into the kitchen alcove proper and she figures it was really the best that she could hope for from the man at this stage of the game. Still, Beryl is more than pleased that Mrs Hughes did actually manage to broach any subject with him at all today. _Thank Goodness for small mercies,_ she figures.

" _Who have you invited?"_ Mrs Hughes inquires.

" _Oh, just us, Mr Bates, Mr Molesley and Daisy."_

" _Daisy? ...To wait on us, I assume?"_ comes Mr Carson inevitable disapproving vocalisation about the night's proceedings. Mrs Patmore sees the requisite eye roll she has come to expect from Mrs Hughes whenever Mr Carson gets so uppity about the way things 'should be done', but Beryl chooses to remain blissfully ignorant of anything untoward actually occurring tonight. Mostly, she is well pleased to see Elsie back on form again. _It could still prove to be a pleasant enough night…if Mr Bates can stop being so…so bleedin' eggbound and brooding about their Anna for just one moment…still…it can't be pleasant times at all for the man right now._ But blithe is how Mrs Patmore chooses to remain with all of this motley crew she has assembled when she replies to Mr Carson's disapproval.

" _To wait on us… and eat with us,_ Mr Carson _. And If that though is too…democratically overpowering…you can share what I've made for the housemaids. It is your choice."_

Mrs Hughes instinctively checks on Mr Carson's equilibrium after such blunt effrontery from their little kitchen pepper-pot, but Elsie cannot help but smile at both of her friends. And truth to tell, she finds that on another front, she is quietly and, strangely, almost gleeful about the thought of the young maids likely giggling and squealing about like a children's table on Christmas day, and no doubt secretly playing at sitting in Mr Carson's generally highly off-limits dining chair at the head of the large servant's hall table while the big cat himself is away. Still, she resolves to try to enjoy the mixed company here tonight in the warm kitchen, in recognition of the gift that Mrs Patmore is trying to share with all of them by arranging this little soiree. _It would be a nice way to live, really…like this…relaxed…and with friends as close as family…_

Elsie straightens some non-existent creases on her grey skirt and hopes that she looks tidy enough for the event. She has not exactly felt ebullient all day. But by turns, she has at least felt competent once more…and in some strange ways that she has not fully put a finger on yet, she has felt cared for. Yes, there have been some little things that have briefly unsettled her, but then they have also made her smile quite inexplicably on the inside. Things like Thomas actually wishing her a fond farewell, and Miss Baxter being thankful once again for all of Elsie's help these last days with the Ladies' packing and some mending. And then…there was the way she found her chatelaine this morning, coiled so very neatly in a spiral on her side dresser this morning. It settled her somehow. And later, finding Mr Carson's perplexing, but oft-times still a quite upsetting letter to her, all neatly locked away inside the top drawer of her desk. The letter—she can only thank Beryl for secreting away from prying eyes for her. And she does have vague memories of her friend helping her out of her tiresome old corset and into her nightgown last night when she was too utterly exhausted to manage it on her own— _but… the placement of chatelaine?—it just does not seem to be Beryl's…style…And then, of course, the croquants…_ She does know that only Charles Carson could possibly have brought _them_ back from York and placed them silently in her much cherished little crystal dish. For, Mr Bates knows nothing of her favouring them so, and besides, he surely would have no mind at all to purchase such a thing at the moment, even if she had asked him to do so explicitly. _So, it must have been Charles…and...since when has he ever been 'Charles' to you, you daft Gloik!_ But Elsie can only wonder at what sort of peace offering it is that he is aiming at with them. Yes, they are in the midst of their most painful disagreement ever, but it is not bitter at all—she most surely knows that it is not that on his part, his letter did at least make that clear. Still, she hardly feels that her Charles need explain himself or do anything to make amends with her after she saw that deep hurt in his eyes that she knows she purposefully risked putting there—that she did end up putting there. The thought of that moment makes her swallow down hard on the lump of shame and guilt that is still stuck inside her throat. _And why would he ever be 'My Charles'?_ she cannot help but despair…But, as his letter also made clear, theirs is as dear a friendship as she has ever had as well, and she is grateful to him for taking the time to think of her when he obviously had other, far more urgent business to attend to in York yesterday. She cannot help but wonder what it was he needed to race off to the city for, or if he will ever see fit to share a confidence with her about such things ever again, after all that she has done to him to break his faith in her… _A silver frame won't get you out of this one this time, Elsie Mae Hughes_. She hopes beyond hope that he will trust her again, but she does accept that it will likely take some time. _At least I can share the croquants with him_ — _as ever_ … _if he'll have them…I know he favours the Scottish milk caramel ones the most…_ (It is why she always buys them whenever she must go into York herself and has the chance to do so).

Still, whichever odd ways Elsie has been feeling throughout this wintery quietening down day at the Abbey, at least she has not felt so thoroughly buffeted about as she has done across the previous few days. And so, when she dressed for dinner tonight, she decided that she would just continue to take whatever the day has to offer her with an air of open gratitude. She tidied herself with care, taking some small pleasure in the relaxing process of intricately braiding her hair into many smaller plaits before coiling them all together and tucking and pinning them up neatly at the nape of her neck. And then she dressed quite humbly—as if in deference to her very good friends' kind efforts today.

" _Is everything settled?"_ Mrs Hughes decides to open the conversation as they are beginning to be seated, even though the topic is unavoidably a fraught one for the man seated directly to her right. Mr Carson flicks his eyes up quickly and peers at her across the round table.

" _What's this?_

"I'm, sorry, I assumed you already knew, Mr Carson, _Mr Murray's_ going to Holloway in London _tomorrow— to see Anna—and he's got permission for Mr Bates to be present."_ She is somewhat confused that Mr Carson is outside of this particular loop given his travels to York with Mr Bates yesterday, but the conversation flows on and she puts it down to a momentary lapse of memory as Mr Carson's structured mind struggles with the…well…the sheer and blinding democracy of this particular dining experience.

" _I'll be gone most of the day. I hope to speak to him_ again _afterwards,"_ Mr Bates informs them all generally and with the hopes that the line of questioning will be promptly dropped. Mr Carson's offering of the evening's Grace cannot come soon enough for John, for he hates to speak to anybody of his personal business—aside from with Anna—ever. And even though this evening is a different kind of setting, and he knows that all here mean the very best for himself and for Mrs Bates, he would still rather not speak on the matter at all. It is like an ex-prisoner's jinx to risk doing so, especially when all is still so very uncertain for his Anna.

Mr Carson gruffles lightly to compose himself a little before he responds, _"Of course."_ His mind is actually reeling more than a little, for Mrs Hughes… _Mrs Hughes...Elsie…she just looks so…so...s-soft_. And she is not even wearing a favourite outfit…well…at least not a favourite in his eyes _. Since when have I had favourites?_ he wonders _…like the black satin and orange brocade…she bought that years ago!…and yet I have always loved it…_ But tonight, the somewhat voluminous light beige silken blouse is not truly the best colour for her complexion, nor is it the best cut on her figure, not to his mind, anyway…not when anything from powder to cornflower, and even to navy blues, or her lighter floral print on a lemon yellow summer blouse all seem to become her so much better and make her face and eyes just shine, at least in Charles' eyes… _And…her…her figure! What of it?! What on Earth are you thinking of, Charles Ernest Carson?!_ He admonishes himself soundly. But still, he cannot help but notice that tonight Mrs Hughes' cheeks are clear and fuller than the last two days have shown them— _At least she seems to have slept well last night—_ and her lively eyes are catching the candlelight and her hair is very tidy _—very tidy, indeed—as_ if she has taken even more care with it than usual— _and…and she is feminine…and homely_ — _perhaps…yes…but in the sweetest possible way…like a cream caramel—and…and…_ She is also seated opposite him _,_ as Lady Grantham sits always opposite His Lordship…A _s…as my Elsie would be if she were…were…my…my wife…_ Charles stifles a slightly shuddering breath at the heady thought of it, but Mrs Hughes is looking sympathetically towards Mr Bates to respond to him and has thankfully has not registered Mr Carson staring at her with such palpable longing in his eyes.

" _Don't worry. We'll expect you when we see you,_ Mr Bates _."_

"Ah! _Here's Mr Molesley,"_ Mrs Patmore chimes in to lighten the tone a little and redirect the evening proceedings like a real hostess, " _Now, we can begin."_

 _oOOo_

For his part, Charles Carson is glad of the routine aspects of even this very unusual dining experience to help occupy his mind and to stop him gazing, completely lovelorn, at the fine and graceful lady seated opposite him—possibly embarrassing both of them completely and in very short order _._ He rises to pour the first round of wines for everyone—expertly chosen to compliment Mrs Patmore's fine efforts with the food tonight. As ever, for he cannot seem to be anything but a butler in this house. Mr Bates, of course, abstains, and Mrs Patmore to his left, looks as gleeful as ever to partake of a fine drop on a special occasion, and Charles does suppose that this is a sort of special occasion— if only for its differences from the norm. For Mr Molesley, he surreptitiously leaves a whisker off a full pour, lest the man should over-indulge, and he does the same for Daisy, whom he still struggles to believe has turned 26 this year, but has likely never even had a half-shandy in the lady's parlour at the Grantham Arms. In his eyes, she still looks not much more than the 12-year-old frightened little mousey girl who used to set the fires each morning—the same young lass whom he escorted as best he could on that horrid, horrid day to the most heart-breaking wedding ceremony he has ever known at the Abbey. But she is a lovely young woman now—if still a little dizzy, and she too is deserving of a quality glass of wine to share at a dinner that Mrs Patmore has seen fit to cook especially for them all. He knows he is indebted to Beryl at the moment… _But Daisy?_ … _still…huph…anyway…_ Charles ponders as he carefully pours the second to last glass of merlot, before his own… _And…for you, my sweetest love…I do hope that you enjoy it…_ his eyes try to tell Mrs Hughes.

"Thank you, Mr Carson," Elsie smiles up at him, demurely.

"Well, Mr Carson," Mrs Patmore prompts, "If you would like to do the honours."

"Of course, Mrs Patmore…" He clears his throat lightly as he seats himself and then he begins. "Lord, we thank you for this lovely meal that has been so generously arranged and prepared by Mrs Patmore to be shared by those so gratefully gathered here tonight. May all who may be feeling life's many and varied struggles most keenly at the moment, soon find themselves similarly rejuvenated amongst such convivial company. We thank you for the blessing of this table, dear Lord. Amen."

"Amen" comes the immediate and unanimous response from the now slightly less motley crew.

And as hostess for the evening, Beryl Patmore soon gets them started on a great shuffling about of shared platters of hearty foods, "Mr Carson, would you please pass the buttered parsnips."

oOOo

Dinner conversation actually falls into a natural and considerably relaxed pattern soon after everyone's plates are adequately filled. Although, it is at times surprising who is interested in spending time traversing at greater depth the varied subjects that arise. Mr Molesley quite inadvertently draws Mr Carson into a very interesting debate, along with a wide-eyed and ever-so-grown-up-feeling Daisy Mason, about the sad fate of the very young 'Nine Days Queen'.

"Well, it just seems to me that Lady Jane Grey was very ill-used by all those men around her. I mean, she weren't much older than I was when I started here at the Abbey…How _scared_ must she have been when they went and chopped off her head." Daisy says with her newly discovered stridency, but she does demur a little when she belatedly realises that might be a harsh avenue of conversation with Mr Bates at the table and his wife possibly facing a not dissimilar fate. However, Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes have already ably commandeered Mr Bates attention and have managed to divert his concerns from his wife for the evening by having him relate some anecdotes of his time in the military and when serving as Batman to His Lordship. It happens to be one area of his own and His Lordship's life that John Bates need not keep _entirely_ secret from others.

"Hmm…true," Mr Molesley inadvertently deflects Daisy's potential faux pas, "but it is important to look at the much bigger picture, Daisy, and ask if it could have really ended up any other way?"

"Yes, as sad as the circumstances of her young death were, " Mr Carson joins in "…and indeed, as unjust as it all sounds to us now, it is important to remember that Lady Jane Grey was a very learned young woman for that age, well-schooled in a humanistic education, able to read and speak in many languages, and though she was apparently reluctant to take on the Crown, it was a legitimate claim by the law of the day, instantiated by the former King Henry VIII, that King Edward VI should be able to name her as his successor, and not his father's firstborn daughter."

"Quite right, Mr Carson," Joseph is very much warming to the subject now,

"But it just seems so unfair, that almost all of the Privy Council changed their mind about Lady Grey so very quickly to support Bloody Mary." Daisy suddenly blanches white in front of Mr Carson for having uttered a word that might be deemed cursing at the dinner table and fidgets sweatily with her napkin beneath the tablecloth. However, Mr Carson seems quite nonplussed by the word's usage in reference to this part of history as he is already well invested in this pleasurable conversational pursuit, even if it is to be in conjunction with Mr Molesley who, strangely, does continue to surprise Charles with the depth of his knowledge of the Tudor reign.

"Well, you must remember," Joseph offers, "it was a time of some of the greatest upheaval in the history of Great Britain, and Western Europe, really. You see, the Reformed Church was still trying to establish itself. Lady Jane Grey was only just born when King Henry VIII brought England in line with the broader Protestant movement and established himself as head of the Church of England …everything was very much in flux throughout all of Lady Jane's childhood…. I mean, even the Abbey here was built upon the ruins of Cromwell's Dissolution of the Monasteries under King Henry VIII." Carson nods in agreeance at this statement. The underlying structures of the Abbey still fascinate Charles on a daily basis as he traverses the quiet vaults of the former monastery that form his dominion over His Lordship's own wine cellar. The not so distant ruins of the Byland, Rievaulx, and Fountains Abbeys show how easily Charles' own life might not have been spent in service to the fine house that Downton Abbey became in the centuries after the Reformation. As Mr Carson muses away, Joseph continues enthusiastically, "And many, many people, both with political power and the average person working the fields, still did not believe that we should leave the Roman Church at all. In fact, when you think on it, it could as easily be that we would all be French-speaking Catholics sitting here at this table today, as not."

"Hmm…that is difficult to imagine, indeed," Mr Carson grumbles out.

"Well, it seems to me that people ought to stick more closely to defend their true beliefs than to change their minds so willy-nilly about Lady Grey's right to the throne." Daisy spouts out and then reddens rapidly as she recognises her own levels of personal flippancy when it comes to that particular admonition.

"True enough, Daisy," Mr Carson offers, "but we are all of us impacted by events far outside of our personal ability to change them, and though it is no excuse for inconstancy, keep in mind that the Lord's Privy Council was not, and even to this day, still _is_ not above playing intricate political games, I am afraid to say. Mary the First of Scotland may well have appeared to offer greater stability for the nation at that stage, and Lady Grey did continue to pose a threat to Mary's reign if she remained living, as brutish as _that_ sounds…But ultimately, King Henry's legacy of entrusting many of the lands of the Roman Catholic church to the nobility from the Dissolution of the Monasteries was always going to play a deciding factor in where people's allegiances would ultimately fall." Daisy just stares at Mr Carson, trying to piece together such disparate motivations for the declarations of faith and property that have shaped the land she lives it. It somewhat baffles her. "But, if it is any consolation, Daisy," Charles continues, "Lady Jane Grey purportedly showed much grace and a great stoicism of strong conviction when she did…well...finally meet her fate. Her legacy has arguably played its own part in the England we a blessed enough to live in today…"

"Indeed," Joseph provides enthusiastically, "from all accounts, Lady Jane Grey was subsequently held up as a martyr of sorts, and likely helped Queen Elizabeth garner even broader support to formally establish the Church of England and the true beginnings of the British nation."

Daisy looks between Mr Carson and Mr Molesely, all agog for never having realised how much these men have read and thought about the history of the world they live in. They make it all seem so very _alive_ to her, rather than just a sad litany of the statistics of the deaths, and seemingly brutal injustices inflicted upon the young and the innocent. The picture really is so much bigger and more intricate than Daisy ever imagined.

"Agreed," Mr Carson concurs, "there is much to learn from Lady Grey and the small but important part she had to play in getting us all to the place we live in today. One could argue that her young life had a profound ongoing impact, for think on the great years of stability we were eventually able to enjoy under the long reign of Queen Victoria. Now,... _she_ was a most worthy Monarch.

"But she were dead not long after I was even born!

"Ha!... Quite,... I almost forgot, Daisy," Mr Carson shakes his head at the differences in their life experience through a mere accident of timing of their births, "but again, look at the legacy of the years of Queen Victoria's reign…see how it carries forth in some small ways to what we strive for today… for the constancy and commitment to family and the sovereignty of our nation, even if much has changed since the war…But…what it means to British is still strong and has grown from the works of the men and women, both leaders and willing workers alike, who have come before us."

At this statement, a small lull in the conversation between the members of the other half of the table draws everyone's eyes up to Mr Carson. In many ways, the statement summarises what the shared table tonight is all about— a cohort of willing workers who do what needs to be done and have, in their own small ways, contributed to the nation they are fortunate enough to live in today. Each person ponders the current state of the table in their own way. Daisy is thoughtful, but her mind is churning with the excitement of new ideas slowly starting to synthesise into a more cohesive understanding. Joseph is…truly relaxed and happy to be speaking into this space at all. In fact, he has barely touched his wine for he has felt very little need to artificially fortify his confidence in this arena. Beryl is just smiling proudly at her successful dinner plans, but mostly at her Daisy—for being able to reasonably hold her own with the depth of the conversation she has been able to capture some snippets of as she spoke with Mrs Hughes and Mr Bates. And Mrs Hughes is gazing with unavoidable admiration at the way that Mr Carson can bed down such comforting words about what life is all about. In her eyes and ears, there is a great poetry about the man that always shows him to be a great leader and caring fatherly figure to those whose lives he touches. He is most assuredly a man she would be _most_ proud to call her husband.

… _If only…_

But particularly for John Bates, who maintains a small glint of almost boyish enthusiasm in the ex-soldier's eye from having related a few of the feats of derring-do that he and His Lordship got up to as comrades-in-arms against the Boers at the turn of the century, Mr Carson's words speak to him as a man who is still capable of affecting change in this life by drawing on his own characteristic traits of stoicism and valour. His years in the battlefield with the Lord's Lieutenant Colonel Robert Crawley were indeed some of the best of his entire life. His Lordship was a noble, just, and very astute military leader to work beneath. Sadly, John Bates seldom gets to feel anymore the same level of pride and purpose he felt when he was an active soldier on duty for the Realm.

Daisy, to her credit, picks up on the look in Mr Bates eye, and although she has rarely had recourse to speak directly with the man himself, it being more likely of a day for her to share kind words with his wife instead, she decides to risk asking a question that might, in different circumstances, be seen as terribly impertinent. However, she was so very young when Mr Bates first came to join them at the Abbey, and after understanding more and more of her own William's bravery as a Batman during wartime (for she now, finally, does think of her short-lived but devoted husband as 'her William')…and also knowing that Mrs Patmore is more able to speak on her nephew Archie's war experiences, now that the memorial business and her conflict with Mr Carson is all forgiven, Daisy does decide to risk a question with Mr Bates—for she is positively itching to know.

"Mr Bates, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I have always wanted to know what actually happened in South Africa when your leg was injured."

Mr Bates is momentarily taken aback, for he seldom even thinks on his affliction at all—not after all of these years when he is more than accustomed to dealing with his daily life with the slight impediment and low-level constant pain. And he rarely ever contemplates the particular circumstances of its infliction anymore. But, he has been oddly enjoying relating his stories to Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes about the comparatively settled days of his time in the army. _Odd, …that my life since has often been far more fraught than out on the battlefield. It is always…so much easier to have a little more knowledge of the enemy. Even the Boer's guerrilla tactics could be pre-empted…at least to some degree. We somehow always managed in South Africa…which is more than I can boast nowadays, that much is certain…_ And John realises that his time in South Africa was where his proclivity towards great loyalty and valour was most clearly honed. And sadly, if his interlocuters prior to this point had left him any time at all to dwell upon what has happened in his life since, he would see how much he has had to compromise his ethics just to get through all of the accusations and severe ramifications of what Vera and that brute, Green, have thrown into his path. Still, …he was not always the man that he has had to become…at times…

"No Daisy,…I suppose I have never wanted to speak on such a matter, nor draw attention to it unnecessarily, but I guess it does not bother me so very much anymore." John Bates is a man of few words, but he does have a little of the gift of old Blarney from his mother's Irish heritage when he is disposed to use it. And tonight, he has felt listened to as a man who is not to be pitied (which is something he has always abhorred, and which, sadly, at the moment colours most people's interactions with him). So, he is currently of a mind to be loquacious, for it does take his mind off the endlessly useless cycle of being able to do absolutely nothing to help his Anna. "Well,... as it was, His Lordship and I had already seen many battles and skirmishes by the time this all happened. We were both there from 1899…and I would have been out in the field with him until the very last moment when the May peace treaties were being negotiated if it weren't for the Battle of Rooiwal. But…it is a wonder both of us weren't wounded sooner, now that I think on it…But, we worked well together, His Lordship and I, and…well…we lost a lot of men over time, but overall, he is an astute judge of what is needed when push truly comes to shove. He led some of the most successful battalions…and was able to adjust well to what the Boers were throwing at us…none of which was fully expected by any of us at the time. Their tactics had not really been seen before, you see...but… I was very fortunate to serve under His Lordship…and I am more than thankful now that I did not fair a lot worse than what I did…in the end…

Daisy and all around the table are listening in rapt silence, for unfolding before them all is one man's small part, and yet all of his personal investment, in a part of all of their shared national history. And thankfully, it is all told with a distance of enough years to imbue it all with a certain mythic quality that no one has yet able to imbue upon the dark days of the most recent war—where the losses for all gathered here tonight were so great. John settles in to fully spin his yarn.

"Well, it all happened on the 11th of April in '02…and it proved to be the last great Battle of the campaign…only minor skirmishes with a few pockets of guerrilla fighters who had yet to hear word that the war was officially over occurred after that point and before the signing of the treaty. But…at Rooiwal, it was a motley crew of us that dug in there, to say the very least. Remember, this is just after the crushing defeat of Lord Meuthen's troupes at Tweebosch…that was in early March…and we had many of the remaining but underprepared Imperial Yeomanry from that campaign reassembled with us at Rooiwal under Colonel Kekewich…Now _he_ was a careful soldier. Crafty and wise…he dug us in at Rooiwal…must have been close to 3000 in that regiment…and Lord Grantham, he commanded one of the battalions out in the field…and…well, he trusted Kekewich, even though the man was a commoner…but Lord Kitchener had faith in the Colonel too…and Lord Grantham had had word on how Cecil Rhodes had so stymied Kekewich's decision making in the Siege of Kimberly. Lord Grantham could never abide that a man of true knowledge of what needs to be done in a field conflict should be bullied by one with far less competence but who thought himself far more important.

"Hmm…Rhodes was more self-interested in the fate of his mines, seems to be the case to me—he had no political power by then" Mr Moseley offers, and Charles sees Mrs Hughes concur with the statement about Mr Rhodes Prime Ministership of the Cape, which rightfully ended after he made a total hash in instigating the Jameson Raid that likely led to much of the later bloodshed. However, Charles Carson's views on Cecil Rhodes' place in imperial history remains…conflicted…to say the very least, and he does not want to open up another possible avenue of disagreement between himself and Mrs Hughes at this tenuous moment in their relationship. And so he decides to mask his general consternation and instead attends to Mr Bates increasingly fascinating story. He appreciates the insights it gives into the nature of his master at the Abbey. For, even though Carson had acted as His Lordships valet when they were both much younger men, and he has been Lord Grantham's righthand man for all of these many years since as the butler of Downton Abbey, there is still much that Charles has been unable to fully ascertain about the man.

"Well, working to our benefit, was the fact that it seemed that the Boer guerrillas, under Potgieter and Kemp, thought the area to be only lightly held by British troupes, and so they tried to overrun our position early that morning—charging us on horseback and shooting fast from the saddle. _No one_ handles shooting from the saddle quite like the Boers on a rampage…" John still shakes his head in disbelief at his enemy's skills. "And they took out a good score of our mounted men from the small picket of about 40 that Lord Grantham had spiked out into the field with…leading from the front…as always…and in that first volley, Lord Grantham's mount was one of those taken out. We were on a small rise and the horse fell downwards and trapped His Lordship's leg and he was fully exposed to the ongoing fire…and the yeomanry further back…well they were still spooked from their recent routing at Tweebosch and they started to flee when they saw the heavy losses at the front picket…and I suppose…I do suppose that they thought their mounts were not up to the mark…which they most surely were not."

Daisy looks positively mortified at this news, that the British forces could have been so poorly acquitted and resourced…and…and that all those pretty horses were shot down anyway. Mr Bates tries to deflect, perhaps unsuccessfully, for he has never truly been one to pull his punches with any great ease once they have been thrown.

"Believe me, Daisy, you don't really want to know just how many mounts we lost in South Africa…they were none of them truly up to the mark…the yeomanry's own were shipped over and they were normally just plain and unprepared field working beasts…common nags…and the conditions in the Transvaal…well… put it this way, Lord Grantham rarely bothered to name the mounts he had, for they were ill fit to survive any conditions out there for very long…and _he_ had his pick of the best of them."

No, John's candour really has not helped, for certainly every lady at the table is either slack-jawed or grim mouthed at the news, as is the ever-sensitive Mr Molesley. And even Charles Carson, with his own affinity and respect for animals as important and as noble as even the lowliest workhorse, shows a visage of being most perturbed. John realises that he has stepped into a realm where the innocence of these particular victims of war far outstrips that of even the finest soldier, and so people's responses always tend towards being more aghast about the loss of livestock than they are capable of when the horrors of injury and death to the men themselves are even _alluded_ to. John realises he should change gears for all of their benefits, and so returns to the action of the story, doctoring somewhat the actual truth of the bloody horrors that he faced that day.

"Well…there we were, under ceaseless fire and His Lordship utterly exposed and trapped…and the only way I could see to free him, for the horse was a dead weight on him and sliding slightly down the hillock, was to jump down from Bat horse I was on and to grab the reins of Lord Grantham's horse and try to get mounted again so that my horse could help drag the dead weight of him… Only, my bat horse had spooked and reared and ripped my own reins from my hand. And so I was left standing in full view of the oncoming Boers to try to lift the horse away enough for His Lordship to be able to scramble out from underneath. So, I got the reins twisted up my arm and I grabbed the nut of the saddle and just pulled backwards up the hill as hard as I could. And I don't even know where I found the strength for it all, for I couldn't remember the last truly decent meal I'd had…and Batmen usually fare even a little better than the common foot-soldier…and it was so hot…and dusty…so heavy…so heavy…but…it is strange what you can manage when everything is so…frantic…I suppose... Anyway, it was enough, Lord Grantham managed to drag himself out from under the horse and I pulled him over and around the beast for some sort of cover while I took up his rifle and got a couple of rounds off before reloading and handing it on to him, once he was in better position…and then I scrambled off, his fire must have provided me with enough cover, because I was in the open again, but somehow managed to not get hit— I was off after my spooked Bat horse.

"She was skittish and circling madly and I somehow managed to grab onto her loose reins and drag her back to Lord Grantham—whose leg was still dead and he couldn't much move. And I had to drag the horse down on its front knees so I could hoist His Lordship astride…and as soon as he was up, and I was ready to run and follow behind him, but…but he grabbed me up by the back of my collar or my bullet holster or the like, and he hoisted me up—one-handed—over the front packs of the saddle in front of him—on my belly. And…and I remember the nut of the saddle crushing into my kidney—I reckon it was…and I hadn't even registered that I was hobbling and bleeding too, but Lord Grantham had…I must have taken a shot, just below the knee, and I had not even noticed–must have been when I was trying to drag the horse off His Lordship…didn't even feel it…strange...Anyway, then His Lordship wheeled that spindly little nag around as quick as you like and galloped to catch up with the bulk of the yeomanry- who were still intent on a stampeding retreat. And he drove that horse as hard as any I have ever seen driven…over a mile, I reckon it was before we caught up to the yeomen…and I was busy trying to reload and cover for us, I somehow managed to shoot out a-ways behind us, taking out a couple of Boer riders—more is the wonder because I was bouncing about like billy-o! And I was reloading when Lord Grantham got that nag around and flanked his troupes and wheeled around on them, grabbing the rifle from me and shooting out over the tops yeomanry's heads towards the oncoming Boers— just to bring them all about to heel. And, blazes!—I have _NEVER_ heard such fire in his belly as I did that day…I can't even accurately remember what he yelled to bring those unschooled men to order…something akin to what Henry the 5th did at Agincourt–I wouldn't wonder!…"

John actually scoffs a small and most uncommon laugh for him, "And I can't really say who was foaming more at the mouth after that rough ride and tirade: me, His Lordship or our mount!…but whatever it was that he shouted at those men, they heard him…they heard him…and it worked…Because the few men from the picket that made it back with us— they were already shooting cover fire from astride what remained of their mounts…and… I think maybe those men had seen enough…seen enough of what had happened when his Lordship picked me up…and...and I think…I think those men at least knew that his Lordship was a man worthy of following— a man who would not run away and leave his men to just die—that he would ride with them to the very last…And so he had the few with him, and whatever else he bellowed to those scared young men—it grabbed them, and he rode their lines and set them all to order again…and… somehow,… somehow I garnered an extra rifle and some shot on a pass through the lines…and I'd managed to adjust and climb on behind his Lordship so I could load more for him easily…and before I knew it… it was enough…it was enough…Thank God!…We had them all with us…and Kekewich must have seen it too…and he held the hill with only six field guns and two Pom-Poms for heavy artillery, but in total, we did have almost double the men on the ground that day compared to the Boers — and most of ours were still mounted, however ragtag and inexperienced they all were. So, the men that were dug in provided us enough cover and…and before I knew it—we were off again— Lord Grantham had the men still with him from the picket each take a unit and we charged, with enough columns to be able to flank and easily rout the 200 or so riders that were the Boers advance party that we still faced… And Lord Grantham himself led the charge back down the hill–straight down the middle towards the bulk of their men, who were under some cover, but not holding high ground like we were with Kekewich…and it was enough…just…and the rest…well…well, it was just a flurry of action that I cannot even remember clearly to this day…Sounds…sounds that I…I don't much care to remember…and men I never wanted to see fall…but…but His Lordship— he broke through—fired each barrel faster than I could keep up with the reloading of his second rifle, and somehow he shouted louder than all of that gunfire for his men to hear where the units should ride to next…and somehow...somehow—when the bulk of the Boers were finally let loose onto the field…we had them…we had them anyway…each of our units made a focus on capturing one of the Boer Captains…and Lord Grantham himself, I would swear he took down Potgieter, himself.

"And once his blue shirt was down…the rest of the Boers they…they just lost their focus…and I think they started taking in just how outnumbered they really were, and so it was their turn to turn tail and run...even though they had routed us enough during the mess of battle for them to be within 30 metres of our line by the end…but…they couldn't take us in the end…and …and we had enough men to trace them back and round them up…and Lord Grantham would have had us do it too. He would have…but..but, by the end of the fighting Generals Hamilton and Rawlinson had _finally_ arrived, and Hamilton countermanded both Lord Grantham in the field adn Colonel Kekevich…And…because I would not wonder that Kekevich wanted us to pursue the Boers as fas as we could, too…but Hamilton thought the Boers might ambush us...they'd done as much before…So, we waited for a _ridiculous_ 90 minutes or _more_ before we set out after them…and at least…well we did end up regaining our artillery from Tweebosch…and …I suppose, in hindsight…it probably did save more than a few British lives that day by holding back on that the pursuit…but…still—And I swear it, I have _never_ seen His Lordship rail so hard against himself so as to not flatten a superior officer as he did on that day in the field when those General's just waltzed in so very late in the piece and took control…Huuhgh...But…still…it…it is the way of the army…hmmm…"

Bates looks inward as he finally slows his heady narrative of that fateful yet glorious day and manages to unclench his jaw a little at the outrage he still feels for how things happened, but the same old sad bitterness ever remains. "…and…and sadly…as these things seem to go…and...it wasn't Lord Grantham who ended up with being a Companion to the Order of Bath…nor did he ever get a medal for distinguished service, as I have always thought he so rightfully deserved that day…not even a promotion…"

"Typical!"

Everyone turns quickly to Daisy at her loud outburst and Carson finally finds his voice after such a rollicking adventure had sent him, and by the looks of it, all others around the table, into a bit of a shell-shocked daze.

"Well, I cannot help but agree with that sentiment, Daisy. His Lordship should _never_ have been overlooked for deployment in 1914 if this is what he showed of himself in the field in South Africa."

"Indeed," Bates offers, "Colonel Kekewich was re-deployed, even out of retirement, as were Lords Hamilton and Rawlinson—although their comparatively higher ranks made that a given…but I cannot help but think his Lordship could have changed the course of at least one battle during the Great War…if they'd have let him…"

"True," Mrs Hughes finally finds her voice and quietly helps to fill the heavy silence that had suddenly settled about the table after Mr Bates' last assertion, "…But we all know it was just as likely he would have come to an untimely end there, like any other man who went…perhaps…perhaps the blessing is that he _did not_ go and that we are all still seated here?...One could think…" She trails off and looks down glassy-eyed at her rumpled napkin in her lap, thinking of her niece Moira's dear Alistair who went so early to the Somme and never came back, and how it changed all of her dear Becky's family's lives. Mr Carson cocks his head slightly to the left to swallow and take in the grief-stricken wisdom of the woman he loves, his eyes deep pools of sorrow for the weight of sacrifice that they all ultimately benefit from carrying…

"Indeed," is all he can murmur before his attention is drawn to Mrs Patmore, who also found herself stilled inside her own quiet but perplexing grief as Mr Bates and Mrs Hughes spoke.

"Well…it is certainly quite the tale, Mr Bates…and Mrs Hughes is perhaps right…we are lucky to still have the protection of His Lordship on the home front…Still…I…I cannot help but be… _shocked_ …really…that so many of those yeomen turned and fled…I mean… _Why_?... Why would they do that?... What…what must it have been like to make them all do that?" and everyone knows that the raw mixture of shame and grief and confusion that Mrs Patmore carries about her Archie, is still just beneath the surface as she lifts her own napkin to dab discreetly at the corners of her eyes.

Joseph Molesley shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat and fidgets a little with the corner of his napkin, knowing he was not, and quite likely will never be, any of these sorts of men should the push truly come down to shove again—he who could not even bring himself to go to France at all when called upon. And Carson, although less noticeably and for different reasons, moves similarly, albeit with the intention of removing some invisible lint from his trouser seam. And of course, Mrs Hughes notices it all as she gazes, almost pitifully first towards Beryl and then towards Charles, knowing that the wounds of misunderstanding between both of her friends are still fresh and only now slowly healing.

And to his credit, John Bates pegs it all as well, and chastises himself internally for bringing all of this grief up again for all of those seated around him. _Lord above, things never quite go right when I don't hold my tongue._ But John Bates allowed this to start and in his mind, it is up to him to try to guide the mood back to the track that Mrs Patmore obviously wanted for this evenings dinner. He slowly casts his eye over each person present, knowing that, in particular, Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson have been somewhat out of sorts these last days, and he can see that Mrs Patmore is trying to cheer more than just his own sorry self by providing this shared dinner table tonight.

"Mrs Patmore," he begins gently, "please, believe me when I say that it is the most natural instinct in the world for a man to turn and run when he is faced with their own imminent death in such circumstances... Those men who retreated…they were at their absolute wits' end…tired and hungry and scared…and without regular and clear leadership…and really, it made more sense in that moment to do what they did…Ha…in fact, one could argue that the more foolhardy are those who would do otherwise!… For, most truly, all any man _ever_ wants at such a time, is just to find a way back home—where he can be safe and warm…and well fed,…Mrs Patmore. That is all that those men were thinking of—not of shirking their responsibilities...their duties…they just wanted what…what we have here…right now…that is all…"

The table falls to silence once again until Mr Carson adds in a tone most serious and yet truly humbled, "And there is _no_ shame in that…none whatsoever." Finally, Charles Carson realising what it was that His Lordship had meant when he said he understood Mrs Patmore's point of view about Archibald Philpott's right to be named on their local War Memorial. And thus, keeping a somewhat sheepish and downcast mournful eye away from Mrs Hughes steady gaze, Mr Carson surreptitiously slides a clean white handkerchief from his hip pocket and on to Mrs Patmore's lap beside him, finally and fully surrendering his long-held and somewhat ill-conceived position before squeezing gently at her hardy work-worn fingers. Beryl looks down at his hand and they both know they cannot meet each other's eyes right now, but she briefly and lightly squeezes his broad fingers in return.

"Thank you, Mr Bates," Mrs Patmore's voice is thick with tears as she deflects the conversation away from the man she truly intends to address in this moment, so as to ensure she does not break down completely in front of everyone. "It means an awful lot for you to say as much…I…I think I will go see to our pudding now if you don't mind," she finishes on a whisper before shuffling quickly away from the table.

Mr Carson immediately rises to see Beryl off, and Mr Molesley and Mr Bates belatedly follow suit—the former from being somewhat dazed by the heady ranging of this conversation and the sudden variances of mood at the table. And with the latter, it is not from a lack of understanding of what has just transpired, but by virtue of the constant pain of his impediment, which is suddenly and most keenly felt once more—from the remembrance of it all.

"No, no Daisy, you stay here," Mrs Hughes quickly rises as well in order to cover for her friend, "I'll help Mrs Patmore with the clearing and the serving of the next course."

"Oh…oh...right… Yes, Mrs Hughes." Daisy looks up at her with worried confusion.

Charles briefly catches Mrs Hughes eyes to show his unmistakable gratitude and his heart feels full when he finally sees a smile fully light within his love's eyes —for the first time since they came into this latest horrible state of disagreement about their property ownership plans. His pulse flutters in his neck when he realises that he has somehow managed to do something right by both of his friends in this strange moment… And mainly, his blood surges because he feels a little safer in the knowledge that he has not stupidly lost his sweetest loves kind regard completely, or forever.

"Well," Mr Carson gruffles out to the remains of the table, where Mr Bates and Mr Molesley are both still awkwardly half-poised in a standing position and Daisy is looking up at Mr Carson for guidance, appearing somewhat frightened and agog. "Please, gentleman, be seated again… Daisy… And now,…allow me to top up our glasses with the remains of the wine and then please excuse me for a moment, as I have put aside a lovely sweet dessert wine from my own collection…a Vin Santo from the Chianti region," he continues with a false lightness and unnecessary detail as he finishes haltingly, "…that I think would suit the rhubarb crumble quite…quite splendidly tonight." He tugs at his grey waist coast hem and retreats briefly to his pantry to ease his mind a little and catch some clear air. Carson has seen his share of fraught situations in the upstairs dining room at Downton Abbey these many years, but never have his own emotions been so much called to bear upon any such a scenario. He cannot fathom how the family has generally maintained such a level of decorum in sometimes similar situations! Still, he is not sorry for having to feel such disequilibrium…it is clearly for the best. And he does truly hope that Beryl will be set to rights soon enough as well—with his Elsie's help.

oOOo

Elsie knows it is best to deflect and try to keep Beryl busy for the moment and so she quickly sets about collecting and setting the correct china for their dessert course while Mrs Patmore works to come back to a place where she is efficiently shuffling about the comfort and warmth of her own domain once more.

"Nohw…what else can I do for you, Mrs Patmore?" Mrs Hughes asks as she returns one last time from the round table in the alcove, where the three remaining diners remain sipping quietly at their drinks and gazing inwardly, consumed with their own thoughts and none of them such a sterling interlocutor as to be able to pick up a light weighted conversational thread that would normally be needed in such a situation at the dinner table. Besides, that role would usually fall to Mrs Hughes herself. In fact, as Mrs Hughes leaves on this last trip away from the table, she half winces at Daisy's latest blurted question to Mr Bates about what happened afterwards with his leg in South Africa, but Elsie will just have to face that imminent disaster when they all return for the dessert course. And, of course, she knows that Mr Carson has likely sought his own internal space to breathe freely for a while. However, she does not worry excessively that Charles will not be all right again in just a few moments—it is just his way. Beryl is her main concern right now as she treads softly, one last time, to stack all the main course dishes into the sink.

By her side and gazing into the blackness of the chilled window pane above the sink, Beryl finishes snuffling into Mr Carson's soft white handkerchief and sighs a deep sigh of gratitude for her friend's unspoken understanding of what it is she needs right now. Then Beryl pockets the handkerchief to clean and return to Mr Carson later and turns on the tap to rinse her hands before handling the dessert course.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes." She states in a steadier voice than she thought she would manage as she dries her hands on a clean cloth, "Well, if you would be so good as to take down the sauce boat, it just needs filling with the custard on the back of the Aga and I will sort the crumble from the oven."

"Right you are. And dinner has been lovely tonight Beryl, truly…"

"Yes…well…I _am_ pleased with how it has all turned out so far."

"Are you?...Are…you…going to be all right?" Elsie finishes cautiously.

"Yes…Elsie…I…I am…truly…and…" she looks at her friend closely, who seems to instinctively know just how to support her, even when Beryl knows how Elsie is struggling with so much herself right now. "…and I suppose I understand just how long it can take to…to finally understand different people's points of view…where their actions come from…sometimes…"

"So…you and Mr Carson…well, I mean…I know you had already forgiven him…but…'

"Yes, of course, I had…but now…I suppose…well, let's just say that I am very glad he is now fully on His Lordship's side with all of this…in the end…"

"Well…I am glad of it too…for Mr Carson is not a man who concedes ground very easily. I know that well enough myself, Beryl…after all of these years."

"And nor would you want a good man to do so, Elsie…I know that well enough about _you,..._ after all of these years… And…just so you know…I don't underestimate the worth of the ground that he _does_ end up giving when he is good and ready to do so…and neither should you…"Elsie is caught somewhere between an eye-roll and the expression of a stunned kipper and Beryl cannot help but chuckle out loud at the sight of her friend perhaps starting to realise that all is not yet lost when it comes to the land that lies between herself and the Great One. "Oh, now! Go on!… Get on with y' and take in that custard and I'll be right behind you with the pudding," the democratically overpowering nature of tonight's little soiree inspiring Beryl to take the risk of ordering Mrs Hughes about a little bit more than Mrs Patmore would ever normally dare.

oOOo

 **A/N:** **I have no idea what it may actually be like to be in the middle of a Second Boer War battlefield—I just did a little bit of research and made it all up. Historically, Kekewich, Potgeiter, Kemp, Rawlinson and Hamilton all took actions at Rooiwal that are similar to what I have described in this part of the chapter. Lord Lieutenant Colonel Crawley's actions are loosely based on those of one Lieutenant Carlos Hickie. Bates' actions- just had to fit in with all of the facts somehow!**

 **To Edward Carson** **—I hope you are still out there somewhere on the edges of DAFF-land, and that I did this part of history some justice.**

 **Various Chapter 10. (Pt. ii.) post-pudding conversations will follow this pt.i. when I can manage it. : )**

 **Regards,**

 **BTF.**

 **oOOo**


	11. Ch 11—Democratically Scandalous (Ptii)

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs—** _ **Ch.11. Democratically Scandalous (Pt. ii.).**_

oOOo

Time: Still at the Kitchenmaids' Dinner Table—The Dessert Course. Tuesday, December 1st 1925

"Oh, Mrs Patmore!' Daisy pipes up as soon as she sees her mentor seated and looking more her usual self again. Daisy is so relieved at the sight of it that she cannot help but blurt out the latest exciting piece of knowledge she has learnt while the three upper staff were off 'sorting' the rest of the meal. "You'll never guess what _else_ happened in South Africa with Mr Bates!"

"Daisy, now, do you think maybe we ought to move on to different topics?' Mrs Hughes gently but explicitly nudges, her brow furrowed.

"Oh but, Mrs Hughes, it's such another adventure and it even involves someone else from Downton and I never even knew it!" Daisy is quite imperturbable.

Mrs Hughes looks plaintively at Mr Carson, knowing that he can put a stop to this line of conversation with just one clear word, but it is Beryl who cuts in instead, even though Mr Bates is looking more than uncomfortable at the thought of possibly upsetting Mrs Patmore again.

"Oh!…well then. Please, Mr Bates, do tell us."

"Are you sure, Mrs Patmore?"

"Of course! It's been fun to know of how things were before we even knew you…" Beryl replies and Elsie eyes her closely but she is astounded, once again, at her friend's good cheer and sheer resilience. "And besides…Daisy has piqued my interest now…who else from Downton could have had anything to do with your time in South Africa… I am quite intrigued."

"Well," Mr Carson offers, "It would have to be Dr Clarkson, or _Major_ Clarkson, would it not?"

Mrs Hughes eyebrows creep up curiously. For, although she knew the good doctor left the Cottage Hospital for several years to serve in the South Africa campaigns, after reports came back of the poor condition of the troops that Her Majesty sent over, and the conditions in the concentration camps for the Boer women and children, she never considered that a connection might have been made between Mr Bates and Dr Clarkson in the field, or even the Doctor and His Lordship for that matter. She figured they would have most likely been deployed to different arenas. But it seems that men-of-war never actively advertise their pasts in any way. But then again, most men in _any_ situation do not speak of their pasts at all—ever—at least not when in mixed company…not unless they are expressly needled into doing so. Mrs Hughes well knows what it took to get Mr Carson to open up to her even just a little about Mr Griggs, or his Alice. _No wonder men are all so ruddy difficult to understand all of the time!_ But Elsie has to admit to herself that she really does want to hear this latest tale from Mr Bates too.

"Tell us it all, Mr Bates, please." Daisy pleads.

"Well…all right…if you all really want to hear it…" he views the nods of assent and continues with his tale, talking more tonight about himself then he has ever done before, truth be told. "Well…it was really just during aftermath the Battle–trying to bring it all to some sort of order again. And by that stage, the shot I took in the leg was hurting like billy-o, I can tell you! And I couldn't really go on after that long wait enforced by the Generals before we were allowed to track after the remaining Boers—I could barely even stand up, let alone walk or ride. And so, unfortunately, I had to leave His Lordship's side by then…and he insisted–ordered–that I go to Colonel Kekevich's closest medical tent behind the rise we had held anyway. And His Lordship went on and finally rode out with the remaining men to round up the fleeing Boers…and I am afraid I actually only saw His Lordship on a couple of odd occasions at the barracks after that—once we had both returned to England— I was sent back before him, you see…And I am afraid when we were in each other's presence, it was never so as to actually speak— never seeing each other outside of standard marching manoeuvres when on the parade grounds…and …well…a man at in peacetime does not require a batman anymore, I am afraid—So I was just one of the regulars again. So really, I only properly met with his Lordship again once I arrived below stairs here, close to ten years later…"

"Well I never," Beryl interjects. "That hardly seems fair!"

"Hmmm...Perhaps not, Mrs Patmore…but it is the way of the army, and we all accept it… And besides, it is not as if His Lordship never acknowledged me with at least a slight glance and a nod."

"Still seems strange, if you ask me!" Daisy adds in "…I mean you saved each other's lives!"

"Quite," John replies and just quirks an odd smile and stays fairly silent. He does not expect that Daisy will ever understand that, in some ways, the distance forced between himself and His Lordship made the return to peacetime works somewhat easier and less emotionally fraught for John, and maybe for His Lordship too. Ultimately, John Bates has never personally found it prudent to dwell upon hefty matters for too long. In his experience, it has only ever led to even greater pain, trouble and strife.

"Well, truth to tell, now that we are speaking of it…I have Colonel Kekewich, himself, to thank for my even having the opportunity to become valet here…as it stands…And well,…I suppose the truth must out…it was all actually well after I went to ground for what the first Mrs Bates did within the regiment…after I got back to England…"

Daisy and Mr Molesley are all agog, never having been quite astute enough to pick up on all of the pieces of gossip that fly about the servant's hall. However, all three of the upper staff are well versed in the sorry tale of John Bates' time in Military Prison in York because of his ex-wife's imprudence and dishonest shenanigans, and how it all in some way lead to Mr Bates' false conviction for the supposed murder of that same woman.

"So," Bates continues, "I was actually sent back to England a while before Lord Grantham would have fully completed all of his duties in the field in the Transvaal— when the peace treaties were being finalised and what with the mopping up and coordinating the shipping out of all the troupes and the like… But, it was a bit later than that again, actually… when his Lordship would have been back on the estate and…I was still living in the barracks in North Riding…and I think Colonel Kekewich …well…he always just seemed to keep an eye out for me...for some reason… I think he must have recalled the events of Rooiwal…and, as I said, he was not so far from the ranks of the common man back home…so…perhaps he felt for all of us lads…in some way. But, whatever the reason… I think he must have always known that it was Vera who stole the regimental silver, and not actually me…But…what else could I do?... Even _then_ I would not have a lady go to jail if I…" John swallows hard as thoughts of his Anna suffering tonight in a cell assail him with full force, "…if I…if…if there was anything I could possibly do to prevent it…chrrrm…" he clears his throat and sips at his water before he can continue.

"Well…anyway…I will maintain it to this day, the Major-General, as Colonel Kekewich became after Rooiwal…he was a true man's man…Lord Grantham and I would have followed him to the ends of the Earth…" And John finishes this portion of his tale quite regretfully, " …and I only wish that things had ended better for him at the start of the last war…for…he never even made it to the continent…and…and I cannot help but think he was ill-used in the end by the Regimental powers that be…but…huuhgh…I guess we shall never know… And, it is another story for a different time, to be sure… But still, the Major General kept all of that sorry saga about Vera from His Lordship…probably said I decided to leave the army—if His Lordship ever did enquire after me at that time, for he never knew about it before it all came to sorry light here in Downton…And…and anyway, Kekewich—he is the one who saw me straight again… Got me back on my feet when I got out of the brig. And…and I was more than a little… _unwise_ in my actions at that time, I am ashamed to admit …but he set me straight again…and…well…truth to tell… he is the reason why I still do not drink to this day… And…you see…he eventually set me up to take on the valet role here when it came up in such a hurry for His Lordship. He spoke with his Lordship,…and…well, I just would not be here now if it weren't for the Major General— truly. …And…in point of fact…I would not be here if it weren't for, not only His Lordship not leaving me behind out in the field that day at Rooiwal, as you all now know already…but for Major Clarkson as well…

"Really?!" Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore cannot help but interject.

"It's true!" Daisy offers… all excited again, even if Mr Bates' tale about his time back in the barracks and in the brig and with his first wife (whom Daisy never really saw or understood) has left her somewhat confused again.

"Well, tell them what happened, Mr Bates," Mr Molesley cannot help but prompt. For, despite his passive and almost pacifist nature, Joseph too can appreciate a _Boys Own Adventure_ as much as the next lad when it is well told and a real part of the nation's history.

"Well…like I said, I suppose I can only hazard a guess that Colonel Kekewich had seen most of His Lordship's, and by extension, my own works in the field that morning in Rooiwal. And afterwards…after His Lordship was well gone and trailing after the remaining Boers as they fled for the nearest hills to try to regroup without Potgeiter and Kemp…Well, what happened next—none of us behind that hill were expecting it…because we ended up getting shelled." The ladies all audibly draw in a sharp breath.

"You mean the medical tents?" Mrs Hughes is aghast, for she knows that even in wartime the Geneva medical tents should _never_ be targeted by any side in a conflict. "Unbelievable!"

"Well, whether it was intentional or not, I cannot really say. But, you see, another of the Boers Guerrilla tactics was to make small raids on a less than vigilant platoon after the flurry of a major battle was over…just small envoys of them…often without a clear leader…a cobbled together grouping of Boers made up of whoever managed to assemble after we might have routed them in other skirmishes and battles…These were the Bitterenders. And so, there must have been a rag-tag bunch of them hunkered down on the leeward side of another hillock… They often disguised their trenches so well that even a scouting party would not necessarily see them on a patrolling pass…and they were stealthy too…quiet…so, so quiet… And this group must have got their hands on at least one Pom-Pom at some point…but from where they were, they must have been shooting blind from beyond the next hillock…and so I have to think…I _want_ to think that the medical tent must not have been their intended target…because…well, it wasn't always just the British soldiers that were treated in the field hospitals…I know for a fact that there were some Boer infantrymen under Major Clarkson's care—saw them there with my own eyes…"

"Well, Dr Clarkson would not let _anyone_ suffer if he could help it…I do believe that," Beryl offers.

"True enough," Mr Carson concurs in a low rumble—remembering well the utter distress of the lonely tear streaked man he found hidden in the darkness, his normally impeccably neat bow tie unravelled and hanging limply about his neck as he swilled a double brandy down in the small library on the night of Lady Sybil's untimely death. And all Carson could do was to shakenly pour him another before he had to leave the room himself—lest he also openly blubber in front of another man.

" Yes,…well…"John continues, "I know it's true enough myself…for when we came under attack—this was _hours and hours_ after the battle, mind—close to sundown—because well, for Major Clarkson to be assessing my minor injury he must have already spent the whole day tending to fellows in far worse condition than I... Anyway, he was just assessing the damage to my leg… deciding whether I would keep it or not…I…I remember him saying that he thought hey had got all the buckshot out of the wound…but that he couldn't be certain…and…and he said he thought it was good to keep…my leg…but that tetanus might be more the issue…and…and then…I remember when he doused the wound with antiseptic and…By Golly! I tell you— I must have screamed at least seven different names of the Holy Trinity and beyond when that hit me! It hurt like the _blazes_! Ha. But…that was just when the shelling started and as soon as Clarkson heard a shell whistling much too close for comfort he covered me with his own body… He…he could have–probably should have–tipped the gurney on its side and slid me off it and onto the floor…but it was all too quick when the shell hit… it was just outside the tent…and…and there was no time— and he just did what instinct told him too, I suppose…He literally jumped on top of me and covered my whole body with his own…and the tent was ripped open—equipment flying everywhere—trays of instruments and…and…oh!...oh, I…I remember now!… He…he must have pushed his nurse…there was a nurse next to him…I remember that now…she was helping to tend me…and he…he pushed her—pushed her to the ground —a rough shove…got her underneath the gurney…all in that same moment…and it worked….because I remember…I remember that same nurse—she tended me again…later…later…much, much later…she was saved as well! He got her out of the main blast path…and…but…but he took a heavy piece of shrapnel… right in the lower rib for his trouble…and that probably would have hit _me_ square in the chest if he hadn't—taken me out… And sadly, he was another man I did not see again until I arrived in Downton all of those years later…I never… I never even got to thank him until then… And he finally…after I got to Downton…Dr Clarkson…Well, I was shocked to see the man again, truth to tell…but, he told me how another medic… I young fellow, how he had managed to clear the remains of the tent…organised it to some sort of working order again for all of us…got everyone hauled to cover… But now that I am asked to recall it, …I reckon that it was actually Major Clarkson's Scots accent still shouting the directions to everyone in amongst all of that chaos…I don't know…maybe I was slipping in and out of it by then…But it would not surprise me if he was doing all the shouting—even with the bottom half of a lung gone!"

This last fact garners a range of gasping, incredulous and bemused half murmured responses from John Bates' captivated audience.

"And all the while Kekewich must have got some remaining troupes together to overrun these rogue Boers…captured back the Pom-Pom and a couple of field guns that they must have won off our side at some point… Thank God he managed that pretty quickly…for all of us…And so somehow the makeshift triage got reset by Clarkson and this other young medic. Apparently…Kekewich must have ordered it to be reset in a stronger, more sheltered area…and …and so Major Clarkson …he told me once, years ago now, …that this young chap under his command…he stepped up and got us all to safety…and he was the one that finished cleaning up my leg and bandaging it and apparently he even innovated some sort of tube or the like into Major Clarkson's side- where all of his rib had been shattered with that piece of shrapnel. And this young lad cleaned the good doctor up too—got all of the fragments out that he could and then stitched Major Clarkson all back up again. And from what I understand, while I was being shipped back to England – my leg…well we all know that I didn't have to lose it, of course, …but Major Clarkson stayed on. ...He was back on his feet as quick as he could be, from all accounts I've heard…His Lordship has confirmed as much to me in the years since, garnered from the news he managed to hear as he stayed on well past the May signings of the treaties…I was shipped out just after that... And His Lordship was apparently keen to arrange for Dr Clarkson to return to Downton as soon as His Lordship was shipped out himself, but Major Clarkson flat refused…and well…strange as it is, the Doctor does outrank His Lordship, at least in the medical corps… And so, the Major stayed on. And from what I gather Dr Clarkson had a strong hand in ensuring the conditions for the POWs and the remaining Boers in the camps were improved even more…stayed on until at least the Christmas of '02 before he was finally ordered by the high command to return home and properly recuperate."

"Well I never," breathes out Mrs Patmore, quite in awe of it all, and inadvertently speaking for all around the table who have listened once again in rapt silence to the courage all of these few men who live so close to them in Downton—stories they could never have really known or understood if it were not for the blessing of this table tonight having opened up the space to speak on such matters. "By 'eck…it's a wonder that the _whole lot_ of you didn't come home to Downton with a set of Victoria Crosses!"

"I quite agree," Mrs Hughes pipes in… "you _All of you_ deserve them…I have _never_ heard of such selflessness and courage."

"Well…I don't know about that, Mrs Hughes," Bates demurs, somewhat bashfully.

"And if I may also say, it also seems to me that you, Mr Bates, have more lives than the proverbial cat!"

"Here, here!" Beryl and Joseph Molesley concur with Mrs Hughes while Daisy smiles broadly at all of the goodwill and excitement about her.

Mr Carson just peers around the table with an air of barely constrained pride for this demonstration of what is best about the good men of Downton…the men that he tried to play his own small part to support while many of them were working away from home during the both of the Boer Wars and the Great War. The same men that he had the privilege to appropriately honour when Carson worked with the village council and the memorial committee to arrange their simple cenotaph on the green. _But, really, no form of memorial will ever be enough._ And then Carson's face, by turns, displays a deep sense of humility, above all else. And it is this expression which Elsie cannot help but notice as she gazes between Mr Bates and Mr Carson. And Elsie thinks that it is perhaps the most becoming visage _any_ man could ever actually present to the world.

"Well," John Bates cannot help but huff out a small laugh at Mrs Hughes previous turn of phrase, "I must admit, Mrs Hughes, that in the telling of it, I realise that I've likely not enough fingers on my hands to do the counting!— But I am very well aware of _just_ _how many_ people I truly do owe my life to…and not just in South Africa…even Mr Murray— I owe him so very much too… And, I can safely say that His Lordship has saved my skin far more times than I ever did his… For it is true, that if I did achieve anything over there that other men saw as worthy, then I have most surely been repaid tenfold by the support of His Lordship through all of Anna's and my subsequent trials and misfortunes…" He stalls for a while and swallows heavily, "But you know…I would like to think that what I would honour most in the men I have been fortunate enough to have come to my aid…is…is that they have not judged me too harshly for my many mistakes since that time…and that they just did what needed to be done in those moments when action was required…" John can feel himself welling up and he swallows hard again to control the emotion before he rasps out his last thought. "…and I don't think I will ever have the time left in this life to return all of their favours in full."

Not one person at the table ever likes to see a grown man cry, and all of them have at least some inkling of how helpless and distressed Mr Bates has been these last weeks and months with Anna so unfairly accused. So, no matter how justified John Bates may be in shedding a tear or two amongst friends, each dinner party member politely averts to their eyes by either fiddling with wineglass stems or their napkins, or by smoothing over the non-existent creases on their skirts or trousers, so as to give Mr Bates some time to compose himself.

Mr Molesley finally decides to be brave, and he broaches the heavy silence as best he can.

"But maybe…well…" Joseph stumbles a little, "maybe there are small things that…that we do…day-to-day…that…and…well they do not _actually_ go unnoticed…by those…by those they are meant for… Or…or perhaps sometimes the debts we may owe to others, some of them are actually paid on to other people…in the long run…"

Most members of the dinner party look up a little quizzically at Mr Molesley. It would be easy to view his stumbling comment with a certain air perplexed dismissiveness—thinking of it as being just bumbling Mr Molesley's standard old practice of having a somewhat inept view of the world around him. But all present do wrestle with what he has said on some level or another, and they have to wonder if this idea is part of why they try to be as good as they can be to those around them—when they can be. And Mr Molesley, for his part, does have his eyes trained clearly on Mr Bates. The two men do understand each other at that moment. For, although Joseph may not know exactly how Bates managed to find the extra money on a valet's wage at the time, he does know that Mr Bates helped Joseph to clear his own debts when he was forced into digging ditches after young Master Crawley died. Joseph Molesley knows that John Bates saved him his face within the community back then…and for that he knows that he owes Mr Bates a large debt of gratitude, to say the very least.

"Well," Mr Carson decides to speak, after clearing his throat a little. He wants to at least try to offer a small snippet of his vast knowledge of Downton's history to possibly set the conversation on to a slightly lighter trajectory. "I am sure I speak for everyone when I say that we are certainly fortunate to have you all return to Downton in one piece in the end. And,… you may not be aware of it, but there was a certain little bat horse from Rooiwal who also made it back to Downton safe and sound, after the South Africa campaign."

"Really?!" Daisy pipes in, all wide-eyed and childlike again.

Mr Bates manages to quirk a smile at this. His Lordship did once tell him that he managed to bring that little nag that saved their skins in their last battle back with him when he shipped back home. He was glad to hear that she had a long and peaceful life here, providing a lineage of good farming horses for the estate. _She certainly turned out to be of hardy stock!_

"That's right, Daisy," Mr Carson continues, "And I just found out today from Mr Grout that the very first progeny of that stock mare just birthed her own last foal for the estate yesterday, mid-morning."

Daisy quickly works some figures in her head, and given what she has learnt from Mr Mason about such things on the farm she returns with the query, "Well, how does that work? Wouldn't she be very old for a horse to be having a baby?"

"Well, it is true, Jilly is getting on, but you see, that original bat horse, she took at least a season or two here before she was fit and well enough to foal successfully. So, Jilly would have been born in about the Spring of '05 or '06…and she would just be going on about 19 or 20 years old now, I'd say… But Mr Grout assures me she will be retired from all work once this new little one is weaned..."

"Sadly, I never got to see that little bat horse again, for I am afraid she had died well before I came to Downton in 1912," Bates muses with a tone of some regret in his voice.

"But…but didn't His Lordship ever name her?" Daisy asks.

"Well, His Lordship Christens all of the racing stock, but he has always left the naming of the workhorses to Mr Grout…or Mr Trevellin before him…and even my own father named the stock horses back when he ran the stables…and so Mr Grout just called that little mare 'Sweety'— as I remember it."

"Ha!" Bates cannot help but laugh, "Well I cannot say I ever saw her in _that_ light back in South Africa, for the short time that I had her—what with her being all spindly and underweight _and_ foaming at the mouth after Rooiwal!"

The group chuckles a little at that incongruity.

"Well, …I have to say that it actually seemed to suit her well enough, once she was under Mr Grout's care… from what I remember of her." Mr Carson offers. "Perhaps you ought to go see her newest granddaughter before you leave tomorrow, Mr Bates—see if you can spot the likenesses?"

"Oh! Could I see her too?" Daisy chimes in with girl-like enthusiasm.

"Well Daisy, you ought to go anyway, but I am afraid with my schedule down in London tomorrow, I just won't have the time to see her before the first train leaves. But maybe I will when I get back." Mr Bates replies.

"And has Mr Grout named the foal yet, Mr Carson?" Daisy turns to him, desperately wanting to know.

"Well not that I know of. He normally waits a time and sees what they are like…finds something that properly suits them. Maybe you could offer some suggestions."

"Oh! Could I? Because I already know what I would suggest!"

"Oh?' Mr Carson and all the others at the table are surprisingly interested in what Daisy might think a new working horse should be named.

"Oh yes! Surely we should call the foal 'Rooiwal'?…Or Rooey—for short."

This brings happy chuckle from most of the table mates tonight.

"That sounds like a plan, Daisy," Mr Bates offers. "I do hope that Mr Grout agrees with you. But now, speaking of my own plans for tomorrow, if you will please excuse me, I am afraid you have left me all talked out, and I really must go home to prepare for tomorrow."

"Of course, Mr Bates." Mr Carson offers as he folds his napkin onto his side plate and begins to rise. The rest of the table leisurely follows suit.

"Mrs Patmore, dinner has been quite lovely. Thank you…and thank you, everyone…for listening to this old warhorse chewing your ears off!" Mr Bates joshes lightly, for all of a sudden, he feels all bashful again. He is just not used to divulging so _much_ information in one sitting about _anything_ , and he is certainly not used to speaking his mind on any matters that are of personal import. _Loose lips sink ships,_ John reminds himself once more of his hard learnt personal ethics and he prays that he has not said anything that might come back to haunt him.

"Goodnight, Mr Bates…it has certainly been most interesting to learn more about your time in South Africa…the history of it," Mr Molesley offers.

"Definitely," Daisy adds, "Thank you for telling it to us, Mr Bates, it were ever so excitin'!… But, I will say goodnight too because I really should clear all of these dishes and clean up the kitchen for Mrs Patmore, now."

"I'll help you, Daisy," Mr Molesley offers again, always keen to lend a hand when he can…and maybe he can even enjoy some further conversation side by side at the sink with Daisy—about all things historical. She is really quite a relaxing person for Joseph to speak with, all things considered, for they seem somewhat akin in their levels of innocent intensity about the world around them. "Good luck in London tomorrow, Mr Bates…and thank you for dinner also, Mrs Patmore." Mr Molesley reaches out to shake Mr Bates hand before he and Daisy collect the first lot of crystal ware and the dessert plates to carry back into the kitchen.

"I'll come and help too."

"No, you won't Mrs Patmore," Daisy directs her superior firmly, "You did all of this tonight. Mr Molesley and I can manage the rest of it just fine."

"Oh…well…right you are. And thank you…Well then,…and thank you _all_ for coming tonight…I am glad you all enjoyed the evening."

"Indeed… absolutely," is the general chorus of responses to Mrs Patmore from the five.

"I'll see you off then, Mr Bates," Beryl offers. "And Mr Carson thank you for providing such lovely wines tonight…and now that I think on it, if it is not too sacrilegious…and if there is any left…I wouldn't mind using a little of that Vin Santo when the family returns to make a warm egg Sabayon to pour over some baked pears I think.

"Oh, I think that can be arranged—it sounds lovely. And I also thank you for a wonderful meal tonight, Mrs Patmore."

"It's been my pleasure, truly."

"Well, I'll come with you, Mrs Patmore, to see Mr Bates off. But, if you will just wait a moment, I have a small note for Anna, if they will let her take …Let me go and get it from my desk before you leave."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes…I will certainly try." Mr Bates replies. "Right! I'm off then. Goodnight, Mr Carson." John offers Mr Carson his hand and the two men shake.

"I wish you the very best for tomorrow, Mr Bates… Do let Anna know that we are thinking of her."

"Thank you, Mr Carson, I will."

Presently the little alcove of the kitchenmaids dining table is vacated and only Mr Carson remains standing to survey the remains of this most unusual evening. Normally he would fall straight into stacking and straightening flatware and sugar dusters and clearing of the candlesticks or the like, but tonight, he knows that Mr Molesley and Daisy will ably handle all that is needed. Instead, he takes the time to just breathe in deeply to steady himself a little…and to think. He recognises the feeling within himself—it is deep gratitude. And he feels…content. Mostly. And the longer he breathes it all in, the more he recalls snippets of pleasures of the various pleasures of the evening. Little things. Like knowing he has properly made amends with Mrs Patmore…and the lovely food—including his favourite Yorkshire Puddings— _No one can beat Mrs Patmore's Yorkshire Puddings—_ and…and the candlelight glowing in his Elsie's eyes…and her skin looking all golden—like it used to always appear—back when they were both so much younger—before the Abbey was electrified… _So long ago…we've known each other for so very long…_ But, the more he breathes and muses, the more he feels that something about tonight is still missing—even though he actually enjoyed the whole democratically overpowering affair of it all—much more than he ever would have credited it. For, in truth, it did all feel something like…having a life of his own…just for a moment. And as he leans over to the centre of the table to blow out the two candles that sat in front of Elsie and himself on either side of the table tonight, the heat and wisping smoke of his dreams sting his eyes a little and he finds that he has to blink away some tears.

oOOo

"Mrs Hughes?" Mr Carson taps lightly at her sitting-room door to catch her before she goes to see Mr Bates off at the back door.

"Yes, Mr Carson," is her relaxed and instantaneous reply as she turns back towards the door from where she had been bent a little over her desk, retrieving the letter for Anna from one of the small alcove shelves above the blotter. Charles' heart catches as he sees her eyes looking so bright in the soft glow of the sconce lights.

 _By God, she is beautiful._

"Uuugh…" He feels like a tongue-tied schoolboy, "I…I was just wondering…you see…there was still some Vin-Vin Santo left in both our glasses…and…and I was just wondering if you might like to join me… in my pantry…if …if it is not too much trouble…and I thought we might…well…finish them off…" He trails off as his toes shuffle a little inside his shoes and lightly tries to clear the embarrassment from his throat.

After tonight, the pithy Mrs Hughes seems to have returned with full but velvet force. "Well, only if you are _sure_ that is what you want, Mr _Carrson_."

"Of course it is!" he is inclined to be defensive, given his bumbling approach has been noted so swiftly and she has been completely disarmed him with that rolling of her "r's" around his name. "W-what I mean to say," he counters much more softly after taking a deep and steadying breath, "is…is that it has been a lovely evening, Mrs Hughes, and there is nothing I want more than for you to share a little nightcap with me, …if you please." Because he realises now that this is most assuredly the thing that is still missing from this atypical evening.

Now it is Mrs Hughes' turn to be a little disarmed by his gentlemanly manner and the intensity of his gaze upon her as his words finally strike home inside her heart. She looks down and fiddles a little self-consciously with the envelope in her hands and then turns her head up again to offer him a sweet but bashful little smile that makes Charles heart thud even faster.

"Well…when you put it that way, Mr Carson…how could I possibly refuse?" She thinks she can hear him audibly sigh with relief as she finishes quietly, but with more certainty, "Just let me give this to Mr Bates and see that Mrs Patmore and Daisy and Mr Molesley and the young lasses are all set—wish them a good night, and I will join you directly…" The action is beyond his conscious control, but Carson can feel his fingers tingling and fluttering lightly beside his thigh as he stands aside a little to usher Mrs Hughes past him and through her door. "Thank you…Mr Carson," she almost whispers on her way past his overwhelming warmth.

oOOo

Well, thank you again, Mrs Patmore, for a lovely evening…" John Bates says as he finishes buttoning his heavy winter overcoat and placing his Bowler hat on his head at the backdoor alcove, "Dinner was lovely—as ever. "

"You are most welcome, Mr Bates. I am glad you could enjoy it, what with all that's goin' on for you at the moment…"

"Well…I have to admit, I think it has actually done me some good to take a _small_ amount of time off worrying about Anna…"

"Well, that was part of what I had hoped for. And here, I made a fresh batch of Shrewsbury Cakes today…" Beryl adds as she hands a couple of small brown paper bags over to Mr Bates, "and here are a few winter pears for Anna when you see her…because, well…I figure she might not be getting too much fresh food where…she is."

"And speaking of which Mr Bates," Mrs Hughes approaches them with her hand extended. "Here is the letter for Anna…nothing of too much import…and so I don't think that much will redacted from it…I just want her to know how much we are thinking of her and praying for her."

John feels himself welling up a little again.

"Thank you for that, Mrs Patmore…Mrs Hughes…" He rasps out in a low tone. "I will make sure she gets them…and even if I have to recite the letter verbatim for her. Huuggh…Well…I should be off now." He quirks a half-smile at the ladies, "And I do hope that I did not bore you all too much with all of my stories."

"No!" Elsie and Beryl reply in unison.

"Far from it, Mr Bates." Mrs Hughes continues, "and I would hazard it did us all a little good to hear your many brave tales from afar."

"Quite right," Mrs Patmore concurs, "And…well…I think it is a lot like Mr Molesley put it…in'it—it's the little things we do and say that sometimes get paid on to others that helps to ease their own worries—just a tad, perhaps…and that does not go unnoticed."

"Thank you, Mrs Patmore," John says quietly and actually leans forward to peck her on the cheek. "You are right—it has not gone unnoticed."

"Oh! Go on with y' you daft man!" Beryl bats him away on his upper arm as she comes over all abashed at his praise and Mr Bates smiles fondly at her.

"I mean it, Mrs Patmore, it did me good tonight…to be able to remember the man I once was…"

"You are still that man, as far as I can see it, Mr Bates." Mrs Hughes offers quietly as she leans in to kiss him on the cheek, "And you may try to give _that_ to our Anna for me tomorrow as well," she states in a tone that brooks no argument, as John blushes a little at her affection. He does not hold much hope that he will be allowed to even touch her, let alone plant a kiss on his Anna, but as Mrs Hughes gives him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder as she opens the door for him, he knows that he will certainly try.

Lance Corporal John Bates contemplates Mrs Hughes closely and hopes that she is not wrong about him— that he can actually be the man that all of these ladies see in him—including his dearest Anna.

He hopes.

"Goodnight, Ladies." He says quietly as he lifts his hat to them before ducking out into the icy winter chill to march his lonely way back to his empty home.

As Beryl ducks into the butler's pantry to wish Mr Carson a fond goodnight, Mrs Hughes lingers to watch Mr Bates' solid silhouette slowly disappear into a dark nothingness beyond the feeble glow of the back-porch light. Somehow, he seems to be simultaneously carrying more pain through his limping leg than she can recall seeing since the time when his odious his leg brace contraption caused him so many issues. Yet, there is something about the set of his shoulders that seems a little less lopsided now, and she thinks that after tonight he is more solidly bearing that unfathomable weight that he always seems to carry with him—perhaps just a little more steadily and forthrightly now.

Quietly she closes and locks the door after him and turns to follow Beryl, as she exits the butler's pantry. The two ladies move through the servants' hall and into the kitchen, dismissing their remaining young house and kitchen maids to their bedrooms for the night along the way. Then they check on Daisy and Mr Molesley's progress before also wishing them a pleasant evening. And throughout it, Elsie marvels at the way that, somehow, her friend has deftly managed to adjust many of the burdens upon the shoulders of those who shared their little table tonight—somehow shifting their worries into a more manageable position—Beryl's own included. The dinner turned out to be everything that Mr Carson's carefully worded prayer of grace entreated. _Quite the hostess is our Beryl,_ Mrs Hughes muses once more as she eventually moves to bid Beryl good night at the base of the back stairs. But Elsie finds she does not quite know what to say to Beryl about all of her efforts, now that she knows that she herself is fairly safely back on Charles' side after his heartfelt invitation to her for a nightcap, thanks in no small part to this lovely shared dinner.

"Thank you, Beryl," is all she manages to almost whisper out as she reaches for her friend's hand and gives it a slight squeeze. "Goodnight."

"Likewise, Elsie. Goodnight."

oOOo

Mrs Hughes finishes straightening a few last items on her desk before going to join Mr Carson in his pantry for that much-desired nightcap. As she carefully banks the coals in her fire grate and picks up her chatelaine from her desk before switching off the sconce lights, she can feel her heart starting to beat faster with a strange sense of anticipation at spending the remainder of the evening with Mr Carson. There is something that feels almost _racey_ about being alone with him in this way. And yet, to all appearances, it is no different to so many other late evenings where the two of them have sat together quietly to chat about their day and share a little sherry or a port, or the remains of the table wine, before retiring to their separate beds. But tonight…well, it just _is_ different…the whole evening has been most uncommon for all of them. And it has most certainly been as democratically overpowering as Mrs Patmore suggested it would be at the beginning of the evening when she first tipped Mr Carson completely off-kilter! But now that it is over, Elsie's own unnameable worries are starting to set in and she does pray that Mr Carson is going to be all right with all that has transpired…that he will not fall into a grumbling distance from her, and even from Beryl, again.

As she chews a little worriedly at her bottom lip and absently fingers at the fine filigree work on the clasp of her chatelaine, Elsie decides to make what little peace offering she can do to Mr Carson. She knows that she hurt him on Sunday evening—feels it keenly—as a sharp weight piercing inside her chest. And yet, he is still as gracious and polite to her as he has ever been—it could make her weep. She breathes in the flush of her tears before they can fall and takes a small china plate from her sideboard display, then Elsie reaches up to the shelf above her side table and brings down her little lidded crystal dish and chooses out just two of the croquants he most assuredly did bring back for her from York— one of the hard toffee nut praline, and the other, one of his favourite Scottish milk cream centred ones. It still makes Elsie smile that Charles would like the soft-centred ones a little more than the hard nut praline centres that she had just assumed other men would probably favour most. But as she goes to replace her precious crystal dish safely up on the shelf again, on a whim, she decides to place an extra one of each of the types of croquants upon the side plate. _Well,…it is a usual night…why not continue indulging?_ Elsie convinces herself as the crystal dish is once more returned safely to its lofty home— _Scandalous, Elsie Mae Hughes…quite scandalous!_.

Elsie then checks her visage in the small oval mirror above the fire mantle one last time to see that her hair is tidy. She switches off the side table lamp as she exits the room, locks away the housekeeper's sitting room, and carefully carries her small peace offering into the room next door.

oOOo

"Ah! Mrs Hughes," Mr Carson states expectantly as he finishes shutting over the wall-mounted keys cabinet door and then rounds his desk as she enters the room. "Thank you for joining me. Here, let me take those from you," he offers as he removes her chatelaine and the little side plate with the four chocolates from her not-quite-visibly shaking hands. He closes the door behind her and then he gestures for Mrs Hughes to be seated near the fireplace on her usual velvet padded seat. Then he takes up his seat opposite her, with the little round drinks table positioned between them.

"Thank you, Mr Carson…I…" it is Elsie's turn to feel like she is stumbling nervously over her own tongue, "well,…you see…I…I did wonder if these might taste well enough along with the remains of the...the Vin Santo you have…you have on offer,…Mr Carson… Would…would you like to try…one…them…?"

"Now, Mrs Hughes," Carson smiles softly, and just a little playfully, at her, "How could I possibly refuse…given that you sound so very _sure_ about it?" He risks the gentle return jab and delights in how Elsie's eyes widen and brighten with an instant fire at his impudence, closely followed by a knowing sweet smile and a blushing warmth on her cheeks.

 _She is just so...adorable!_ Carson can feel the hot flush of blood drop through from the base of his neck, expanding his chest almost painfully as he struggles to draw breath before the feeling settles—somewhere down in his fluttering tummy. He lives for these moments when he can see his Elsie so unguarded and expressive. He always hopes that she is only ever this way just with him…for him. He thinks perhaps that it is so. Plus, he is ever so pleased to see her sharing the croquants he brought back from York for her. It makes him feel a little surer that she can accept him and what he has to offer her—in the long run. But he tries to deflect a little, for he does not want Elsie to feel at all uncomfortable with his gentle ribbing.

And so, he silently hands her the remains of her Vin Santo and states factually, "I actually think that they will match together quite admirably."

But as Mrs Hughes blushes even deeper and averts her eyes from his as she takes the glass of sweet wine he is offering, he realises too late what she may actually be reading across his statement. He averts his eyes from her for a moment so that she may compose herself, and he also takes a moment to distract his thoughts a little, by leaning forward to place her chatelaine on the little drinks table, absently coiling the chains around and about the edges of the filigreed clasp to form a neat spiral.

Elsie sharply draws in a breath— _It WAS Charles who left my chatelaine on the dresser last night...but...but...that means..._

She blushes deeper again and Charles cannot help but look up this time at her small sounds. And besides, she really is just so very delightful to look at as she takes shallow breaths and intently sips at the small glass of golden warming liquid to try and calm her reactions. Not realising the impact his placement of the chatelaine has had on Elsie's foggy memories from last night, Charles ultimately decides that he just does not care a wit that his innocent remark may have been misconstrued…because…well…what is there really to misconstrue? Carson feels his confidence returning even as Mrs Hughes seems strangely tongue-tied for the moment.

He continues in a relaxed tone, "But you know, I have always struggled to decide which of these particular croquants, that you favour so Mrs Hughes, is actually _my_ favourite."

"Really?" she is quite surprised. She thought she knew.

"Quite. In fact, I find it quite the small dilemma to decide between them each time they are on offer."

"Oh,…well,…but, which one do you think will go the best with the Vin Santo?"

"Why don't we find out," Charles states with some enthusiasm as, on a whim, he rises quickly and strides towards his side table near the silver cabinet that holds a tray with an array of partial decanters of wine, a corkscrew and other neatly place accoutrements of wine service. Taking up a small bladed flip knife that is normally used to cut away the wax seal or a foil cover above a corked wine or a champagne bottle, Charles deftly cuts into halves the four croquants on the little china plate at the drinks table. Then he takes his seat again, all the while being quite unaware that Elsie has been following his every graceful and assured move with slightly glazed and enamoured eyes. She looks up from the cut croquants to his eyes and her quirked eyebrow begs the question.

"Well," Charles replies, "I do think the smaller pieces will make the tasting comparison easier," and he quirks a small chubby-cheeked half-smile at her while he raises one of his formidable eyebrows in a featherlight challenge to Mrs Hughes.

 _How can he be so intent and serious and yet playful all at once?_ Elsie smiles bemusedly at him and his ways, even as she feels somewhat giddy—as if they are definitely engaged in something most decidedly racey right now.

"So, which shall we try first?"

"Well, I think a soft-centred one followed by the hard crunch one, don't you?" Mr Carson the intent butler suggests as he offers the plate to Elsie.

"Of course,…that makes sense…the soft ones don't catch in the teeth as much, I find."

"Quite," he replies.

It is all so very sedate and serious. But, if either of them was of a mind to think too closely on it at this moment, they would both think such an intent discussion about the relative merits of some small chocolate-coated candies would all seem ridiculously frivolous. However, it happens to be all that truly matters in this shared moment together. They both hum low and contentedly as they chew their first tasting and then sip some of the sweet wine straight afterwards.

"Oh, you are quite right, Mr Carson," Elsie finally manages once her mouth is clear. "They taste absolutely delightful together."

"Indeed. And now for the hard-centred one," and Carson offers the plate to Elsie once more to try a quarter of the hard nut praline croquants on offer.

After some low, satisfied sounds, Carson manages to share his analysis of this particular pairing, even as Elsie is still trying to finish hers in a somewhat ladylike manner, battling with not crunching too loudly while also trying desperately to suppress her intense desire to moan with happiness at this new flavour combination she is experiencing.

"Hmm, again, quite delightful…but very different. I found the soft milk centres brought out a sharper undertone of grasses and some of the hidden tannins in the wine, it made for a refreshing finish— Wouldn't you agree, Mrs Hughes?"

"Well, I suppose so… I am no expert, but I can certainly tell you that it was lovely." She smiles sweetly at him and his enthusiasm for what is truly his 'craft' as a butler.

"Always," Charles replies, almost cryptically about the soft Scottish cream caramel before continuing on, "but then the slight bitterness and nut flavours of the hard centred one supports the sweet botrytized flavours of the Vin Santo grapes. It became almost honeyed and had a smoother mouthfeel on the finish," he finishes with a well-honed authority that Elsie just delights in. She loves to hear him speak so knowledgeably about something that is …well…just so very pleasurable! Her heart has started racing quite uncontrollably again.

"So, Mr Carson," she nudges at him with a playful and ribbing tone and with a heady twinkle in her eye, "how are you on the dilemma of choosing a favourite sweet now."

Charles takes up her challenge and her light tone by responding in a terribly serious deadpan, "Well, I am afraid I am as conflicted as ever a lad was when faced with _so many_ delightful choices." And he shakes his head ever so slightly and tries to appear quite mournful, but the glinting playfulness in his dark eyes as he peers up at Elsie from beneath his overly furrowed brow purposefully betrays him.

Elsie cannot help but smile at his gentle silliness. _It… He… It is as if…he is …f-flirting with me!_ She realises with a sudden rush of heat climbing her cheeks again…and this time it spreading out in an unstoppable burst across her chest as well, which is so innocently hidden beneath the homeliest of her long-sleeved blouses. _Gosh!_

"Well, …Mr Carson, " she manages to tumble out with, her voice not wavering and betraying her too much, "that…certainly is a major ongoing dilemma…what is a boy to do?" She manages to josh lightly again.

"Well I am glad you asked, Mrs Hughes, for I think I may have come up with the perfect solution, based on, as Mrs Patmore put it: the democratically overpowering nature of tonight's proceedings," he states brightly as he reaches once more for the small china plate with a flourish of his wrist. But, instead of picking the plate up to offer it to Elsie once more, he quickly snatches up two pieces of croquant, one hard and one soft centred, and wastes no time in plonking them both into his mouth, chewing rapidly and then extravagantly tossing back the last remaining swig of his Vin Santo as a huge cheeky grin starts to form upon his face. He is filled with heady sensations and his mind does feel as if it is swirling about in a drunken stupor, even though he has never been one to imbibe to _any_ sort of excess. In truth, he well knows that it is really his heart in this giddy moment, which is beating all out of kilter, that is actually pulling his mind along for the ride in this most dizzying reel. He just loves the look upon her face!

Mrs Hughes just stares wide-eyed at him for a moment—not quite remembering when she has ever seen Mr Carson acting so very…childishly, and then she cannot help but scoff out loud with laughter at the knowingly guilty look upon his dear face.

"Oh, Mr Ca _rr_ son!' she giggles out, "It is confirmed, Beryl was correct—mealtimes today have been utterly scandalous! And, I do believe you could indeed solve all of the problems of the world with that approach!"

"Quite right" he affirms boldly, "I am sure of it too, Mrs Hughes. You ought to try it—here." He offers her the remaining two pieces of mixed croquants on the plate.

"Oh, no. I couldn't Mr Carson, … honestly." She demurs—suddenly bashful again.

"Oh, but you _should_ , Mrs Hughes! I can assure you, it is like nothing else you've ever tasted… Go on, now." He beckons her again with the loveliest open and sweet smile upon his face.

"Well…" she hesitates again, to which Charles just lilts a spectacularly rakish eyebrow at her and gestures with the plate again. "Well, … if you insist."

"I do, Mrs Hughes," He says in a low, almost husky, voice and he patiently waits for her to act upon the temptation.

"Well, all right then. I will…just for you." She rushes out on the end and then blushes prettily again.

"Quite right," Mr Carson says almost absently as he intently focuses on Elsie's lips as she demurely pops both contrasting chocolate croquant flavours into her mouth and begins to chew. And then his eyes are drawn instinctively to hers as her pupils widen as the heady and wonderful sweetness and the new mix of textures hits her fully and she sighs audibly. He smiles so happily at her at that moment and then he gestures for her to try some of the Vin Santo at the same time. She sips at it and without volition, her head drops back and her closed eyes are turned heavenward as a rush of sweet saliva floods her mouth to try to process the extraordinary mixture of flavours. The sensation is overwhelming her such that an uncontrollable and low guttural moan of utter bliss escapes her throat. She keeps her eyes closed until she is able to finish chewing and savouring and swallowing the other-worldly little morsel, allowing Charles ample time to observe her. His eyes are ultimately and most intimately drawn to the fluttering of her pulse beneath her fine jawline. _Please God, let me kiss that one day soon!_ he sends up a fervent prayer as a means to prevent himself from actually lunging towards Mrs Hughes just so that he can feel the soft quivering of her heartbeat beneath his lips and possibly make her moan in that most heavenly way once more. "Scandalous." The word whispers secretly but quite uncontrollably from his lips as Elsie finishes—a look of the deepest held desire gracing his face. Charles just manages to blink back to reality in time and he tries to cover his tracks once he becomes fully cognisant of the word he just applied to Mrs Hughes' quite visceral reactions to this little Epicurean experience. He clears his throat lightly as a means to clear his head, but his voice is still somewhat strangled by his body's own heart pounding response to what he has observed. "See…see what I mean, …Mrs Hughes?"

"Oh _yesss_ , Mr Carson…" Elsie responds, almost breathlessly, as she blinks her eyes open and focuses with darkened intensity on Charles' own glimmering eyes "Quite…quite scandalous."

oOOo


	12. Ch 12—The Golden Hour

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs. _Chapter 12—The Golden Hour_**

 **A/N** **: The muse took quite an unexpected route to get this part of the story told. As such, the detailed historical research into certain motifs took a while to coalesce within my mind; the way the scenes should play out took _forever_ to work out; and, I can only hope it gives the different sort of insight into Charles and Elsie that I envisioned. Work commitments have also delayed me—as per usual, so thank you for your patience and for sticking with this alternate headcanon fiction of mine. Please let me know what you think of this unusual approach to the Chelsie romance in a review—if you care to.**

 **Italicised dialogue is drawn from DA S5. Some of it also denotes memories of speech form past events, as well as the internal thoughts of various characters. Some of these italicised sections can sit closely with the JF canon dialogue, so I hope it does not get too confusing.**

 **Also, If you are into this sort of thing, I will have some historical notes and links to my research at the end of this chapter.**

 **Kind r** **egards,**

 **BTF.**

 **oOOo**

 ** _Chapter 12—The Golden Hour_**

Wednesday 2nd December 1925.

Late afternoon of the day after the round table dinner.

Downton Abbey.

oOOo

Below the Green Baize Door

Joseph Molesley feels strangely relaxed and purposeful all at the same time as he makes his way down the stairs from the green baize door, ready to turn along the slates of the main servants' hallway that runs past the gentle cluttering business of the kitchen. He can still smell the heady mixture of ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and clove spices, plus the vapour of strong liquor filling the air. He had already known from his conversation with Daisy at the sink after the dinner last night that today was to be the day that she and Mrs Patmore were to mix all of the various iterations of their pre-soaked brandied fruits into puddings, mince pies and a large fruit cake or two for the Christmas season.

They have been at it since before breakfast was served, given that the Abbey gifts many of the Christmas treats to families in the parish, and the church council sells another swathe of puddings and pies as a means to fundraise for poor and needy in the area. But Daisy and Mrs Patmore still managed to spare the time to have Nanny come down with the children just before luncheon so that they could all help to stir the plum pudding mixture for the house and make a wish and a prayer over it as they dropped in a new silver sixpence each. Joseph noticed how Roland and Daniel still enjoyed this last vestige of their childhoods, along with the younger children from upstairs. Master George was all wide-eyed and looking up to both lads and trying to be 'just as strong as the big boys' when his turn came to mix the heavy dough. And then Andy was drawn into it all, for he had been leaning against the hall archway in readiness for lunch, looking wistfully and somewhat longingly at a tradition he'd had no experience of before. And luckily for him, Mrs Patmore pegged Mr Carson's head gliding past the high kitchen window into the hallway and she knew that Andy was about to cop a pasting in front of everyone for slouching, so she called on him to join the fun, knowing that Mr Carson's ire would melt away the moment he saw all of his young lads helping Master George and Misses Sybbie and Marigold with the heavy stirring. Gosh, even Joseph himself got to give the batter a turn and make a wish, along with Mrs Hughes who had wandered in after Mr Carson and caught Mrs Patmore's eye and knew that everyone in the room truly wanted Mr Carson to give the pudding a stir and that he would absolutely do no such thing unless Mrs Hughes guided _(or goaded)_ him into it. So as soon as Mrs Hughes stepped up and had her stir of the pudding, the youngest children chorused for Mr Carson to give the final stir to 'make it all even'. And how could Mr Carson possibly refuse and order like that from the upstairs family? It was a sight to behold!— Mr Carson in the finery of his morning tailed livery coat, dusting some flour off Miss Marigold's rosy round cheeks and brushing it purposefully onto Miss Sybbie's nose to make her giggle even more. However, Mr Carson missed the mark with Master George as the wily young lad ducked and weaved out of the way in time. The children loved it, and although the pudding did not offer a particularly appetising spoon or two for such young children to enjoy licking at the end of the work (due to the very high liquor content of the mixture) Daisy gave them each a small ball of suet pastry from her work on the mince pies for them to squish and play about with (and to munch away on under Nanny's not _entirely_ approving eye), while they sat at the kitchenmaid's round table. Meanwhile, Daisy finished packing a small basket for their indoor adventure picnic in one of the disused old servants' rooms set high up in one of the Abbey's towers—to help them to while away the hours of this long and wintery day since their parents are away. The weather at that time of day had already looked far too inclement for them to risk venturing out onto the grounds at all. It was the sort of adventure Joseph himself would have revelled in as a lad. And yet, there is a slight air of sadness about all of these pre-Christmas preparations as no one is quite ready to admit openly how much they will likely miss little Miss Sybbie's sparky presence in the grand house when she leaves in the new year with Mr Branson as he tries out his luck in Boston. Still, as far as Joseph has been concerned, it was still lovely to see everyone downstairs, gathered together in the friendly thick of it all in the kitchen.

And now, at this late hour, to Joseph, the house still feels warm and surprisingly cosy from the work of the kitchen. It is all settled and homely in a way that it sometimes struggles to feel when all of the grand family are about upstairs—always poised to ring bells and make requests at any moment. In a way, Joseph figures that, except for the village church bells ringing on a Sunday morning (and those from his youth— the first bells into the schoolhouse in the morning and after lunchtime when he could escape the troubles of the other boys in the play yard and re-enter the structure of books and the schoolmaster's strict but fairhanded care), most bells will always make Joseph feel a little nervy. But he has had quite a fine day of it today, all in all. The dinner last night made him feel like he belongs in the Abbey more than he has done…well… _ever_ really, and certainly since he had the position second footman position wrangled for him by Mrs Hughes and Patmore after Master Crawley's untimely death and Joseph's somewhat shameful time delivering groceries to the Abbey and digging ditches about all the local villages of the Shire.

In fact, today has been a rather odd day all around, really. For, although he knows that Mr Carson has played him for a bit of a fool in the past, what with running him hither and thither as first, second, third and _last_ footman, today Mr Carson has merely set Mr Molesley the small task of seeing to the minor duties of the house in much the way Joseph used to do as trained butler to Mrs Crawley and Master Crawley back before the war. True, he has only had Roland and Daniel earlier this morning to direct, and after that really only the truly amiable Andy to loosely command in a few light cleaning and polishing duties, but each lad has given him easy and due respect, and so Joseph does feel rather chuffed about it all— like he can be a bit of a leader if the needs must and the circumstances are truly amenable to him.

Truth be told, Joseph had been more than happy to sit side by side with Andy as they initially worked over the Feversham* candelabras in readiness for a final gleaming polish they will receive just before they are set in their traditional and annual position of the family's Christmas dinner table each year. They had not been touched since they were locked away in the Butler's silver cabinet after Christmas last year, and Joseph was rightly proud that he had them entrusted to his care, for it is not normally a job that Mr Carson would hand on to others. The sentimental importance of the pieces was not lost on Joseph, as he already knew from his old Dad and Granddad years ago (not that anyone ever _really_ talks about such things) that they are likely one of the very few treasures the Dowager Countess of Grantham could actually bring into her marriage to the 6th Earl of Grantham back in the middle of last century—what with Lady Violet's own family being only of an agriculturally based and quite recently raised Baronetage. Her father was only known for being a rather stolid and non-descript MP for the North Riding*, more interested in breading bullocks than passing political bills (or so the story goes). Although, to the likes of Joseph Molesley and his Dad, the Duncombes* from near Helmsley and the old Rievaulx Abbey, east of Thirsk, were as rich as Croesus in comparison to their own lowly lot in life. Still, as the youngest remaining daughter of a large family, Lady Violet had no dowry to speak of that would commend her as a good marriage prospect when she was being presented at court. And so, despite their opulence, Joseph likes the somewhat homely story that accompanies the Feversham candelabras and appreciates that the Dowager Countesses' never publicly alluded to, yet slightly simpler, origins are honoured within the distinctly grander history of the Earldom of Grantham. To Joseph's obliging mind, it all seems to be what Christmas is all about—in a way...the building of a family and some sort of closeness, in whatever form that may take.

Now at the end of a day filled with gentle comradery and simple industriousness, Joseph pauses at the bottom of the stairs down from the front entranceway and grand saloon to breathe in with some quiet confidence the small successes of his relatively unharried day. Although, in his current relaxed state, he also finds himself musing on the fact that it would still be quite lovely to have Miss Baxter back from the Moorlands holiday already—able to spend a quiet evening chatting with him about this and that as she diligently sews at the servant's table after dinner. _Quite lovely, indeed._ Thus distracted in his reverie, Joseph is somewhat taken aback by the fast clip of Mr Bates cane and the lighter thud of his halting steps on the slates as he makes his rather determined path towards Mr Carson's pantry, or so Joseph assumes.

" _Mr Bates! Are you going somewhere?" He's heading for the back door!_ Joseph realises in a flash, although, in truth, no one was really expecting to see Mr Bates at all until a little later this evening, and then only if his train arrived in time to afford him an easy dinner in the servant's hall tonight rather than relying on what British Rail might manage to sadly throw together in the third class carriages' dining car on the late trains up from London, or what he might rustle up by himself in his cottage without Mrs Bates there.

" _I am…In fact, can I ask a favour, Mr Molesley? Can you give these to Mr Carson?"_

 _Gosh, he seems a little harried…and…and secretive_ , Josephs thinks.

" _He'll know what to do with them,"_ Bates continues.

Joseph is somewhat taken aback, and typically for him, it makes his voice a little squeaky and bumbling.

"B-w-well _, he's about somewhere."_

" _I'd rather not see him… And don't give them to him yet. Wait till this evening."_

Joseph's brow furrows immediately, he knows well enough what a good person who is hiding something truly burdensome to their soul actually looks like, having only just finished helping Miss Baxter traverse the truth of weighty matters between her and Thomas, (a man whom Joseph still struggles to peg down, and will likely never be able to trust entirely, for Mr Barrow's lies and machinations have become too much of a tangled web of lies for the likes of Mr Molesley to ever unravel or understand). But Joseph knows Mr Bates to be an honourable man at heart, especially after what he learnt of the South Africa Campaign last night at dinner… _and His Lordship would not have kept him on so long as a trusted valet if this were not the case_ …And besides, Joseph knows he still owes Mr Bates for protecting his own dignity all of those years ago, and so he takes the risk—tries to be brave again—or to at least be an honest friend, for Joseph Molesley does at least know how to be that.

" _Mr Bates, are you in trouble?"_ he asks with great concern.

" _My wife's in prison - I'd call that trouble, wouldn't you?"_ John answers a gritty bleakness.

" _Because I want you to know I'd gladly help you in any way I can."_ Joseph tumbles out before he thinks too much about it…because that is what a friend would do.

" _I'm touched by that. I mean it. Thank you."_ John Bates quirks him a rather pained half-smile— recognises the gesture for what it is and sees the goodness of the man who offers it. He draws a stiff breath and states somewhat grimly, " _But the only way you can help me now is by delivering those letters."_ Then he turns to make his determined way out of the back servant's hall door

Joseph feels short of breath and remains speechless and confused as he watches Mr Bates disappear quickly into the late afternoon chill and slanted light of the setting sun.

oOOo

Nearing twilight

Joseph has been edging about the servants' hall for almost the last hour, vacillating to the point of drawing pithy comment from Mrs Patmore when the odd breathy squeaky sounds he just made inside his chest draws her attention away from lifting the last of the tied plum pudding calicos from her copper steamer and slinging the perfectly shaped cannonball over a broom handle wedged between the sink and the main workbench.

"What on earth are you about, Mr Molesley?! You sound like you've already swallowed the sixpence from the pudding by accident. Now here— you can help me with this."

Joseph dutifully assists Mrs Patmore in hefting the pudding laden broomstick onto the hooks above the Aga mantle to dry until Christmas Day. His Nan always used to make it on the first Sunday of Advent, but Mrs Patmore, not being one to stand on too much traditional ceremony for the sake of Old Queen Vic.** (Beryl is far too busy for all of that palaver!) maintains that three weeks is more than enough time to do the trick. In truth, he must admit to himself,that _Mrs Patmore's plum pudding_ _is_ _far moister than Nan's ever was…still…they have only the best ingredients to choose from most of the time at the Abbey_. …But he is dithering about in his thoughts once again.

"Well? What is it then, Mr Molesley?" Mrs Patmore demands as she wipes her hands on a cloth and sets Jill and Lily off together to heft and empty the copper steamer into the sink. "What have you got there?" she asks when she sees Mr Molesley nervously brush over the breast of his livery and she realises he must have some sort of news tucked away on the inside pocket.

"It-it's some letters…from Mr Bates.."

"What? For you?"

'N-no. Not exactly…He…he said they are for Mr Carson…but that I should wait to give them to him…later" he finishes lamely.

"What?! Oh, that cannot be wise! And where is Mr Bates? He ought to be back soon for dinner"

"He…err… he came… and then he went again…" Joseph is starting to feel decidedly squeamish under Mrs Patmore's intense glare.

"Well, you'd best get to finding Mr Carson —quick-smart! They sound important… Well—Go on!" She adds with a sweeping gesture towards the green baize door when she sees Joseph still standing before her stunned like a sweaty-palmed hall boy.

oOOo

The main library

And all the while that Joseph has been handling the small affairs of the male staff today and ruminating latterly on what Mr Bates could possibly be up to and whether or not he should follow the man's directives with the timing of the delivery of the letters, or perhaps that he should act much more hastily on the matter; oddly enough for the two heads of staff, they have spent the last of the quiet afternoon hour in each other's' comfortable and silent presence in the main library.

The day has been a lazy one all around for Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes, what with most of the younger staff off to see family yesterday, the house has been very still but for some casual flittering about of a couple of the remaining housemaids and scullery maids with no family to go and see. The staff have all calmly moved on with their light tasks, even chatted a little and quite amiably, given that no family are about to be silent around, and the upstairs children have been occupied for most of the afternoon after their turret picnic with Nanny and later with Miss Sybbie busy directing a pretend school for the younger Master George and Miss Marigold inside the nursery. The staff's comparatively light duties have merely included some spot cleaning and polishing in preparation for the Christmas rush that will come into full swing once the family returns from the hunt at Brancaster. As such, Carson has been content to let the young lads be directed by Mr Molesley- first footman that he is, once again, before he had him send Roland and Daniel back into the village to their mother's and father's work sides for the remains of the day and after their morning duties have been seen to. Carson knows that with the mass exodus of the Crawleys, both of the young lads are happy to have their Mothers' food for a couple of evenings whenever they can. For, although the Abbey keeps both lads well now that their formal schooling years are completed, and the lads' respective families are very glad that the Abbey houses them since their own family homes are somewhat fit to overflow with a multitude of younger siblings—and, indeed, even though Mrs Patmore's fare would no-doubt surpass each of the other ladies capabilities, what with Beryl's own prodigious culinary repertoire and techniques, there is still nothing quite like being a young and growing lad on the cusp of early manhood being overfed for a change from his Mother's own hearth….Well, Carson imagines that it would be so, for he never had the luxury of it himself,… but he imagines that it would be so.

And so it is that Carson had instead taken to haunting the halls, mentally noting small tasks to add to his work list for the lads in the lead up to Christmas, but mostly perusing the various stunning artworks of the Abbey at his leisure—a favourite pastime of his, in all truth. In a way, he is taking today as an extra half-day, and a much-needed one at that, truth be told, for his sleepless Sunday night and the day of travel on Monday still weigh a little heavily in his aging bones. Somehow in their strolling rounds today, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes have now both gravitated towards the main library. Mrs Hughes, he knows, is using an excuse of the girls not having quite finished the detailed coiled woodwork polishing of the towering bookshelves in the main library yesterday as a means to cover her presence here at this hour. Neither of the heads of staff is actually averse the getting their hands a little dirty with some of the cleaning and polishing tasks that still make up a large core of their work for the grand old Abbey – _Bah! And neither of us can afford NOT to, what with the way staffing levels keep diminishing_ … Charles had groused to himself for possibly the hundredth time when he had first strolled into the library to find Mrs Hughes seated on a low ottoman, her legs demurely angled off to the side and her heeled court shoes peeking out from beneath her dark skirts. She was poised, polishing cloth in one hand and absently resting on one of the lower shelves, as she selected a small volume that had caught her particular fancy. Given that Mrs Hughes was obviously content and occupied, Charles had entered the room silently and recognised the slight, relaxed exhalation of Mrs Hughes breath and understood it as the sign that she was aware of his presence and not perturbed by it—welcomed it even.

He is glad of it, for after last night, she had ended up somewhat flustered from her rather expressive appreciation of the wine and chocolates they had shared at such a late hour in his pantry. She had made her excuses and goodnights to him in a rather harried fashion as she sought the refuge of her own room. Carson recalls fumbling to his feet somewhat ineptly. And he certainly recalls—dreamt of it over again last night, in fact— the brush of their hands when he went to give her the coiled chatelaine from the small drinks table between them. And he definitely remembers how he caught her wide-eyed and blush-faced embarrassment in that moment and could not help himself from running his tongue tip along the inside of his lower lip as he quirked a rather pleased half-cheeked smile at her reaction. And the skin on her hand was so very, very soft, just like that day—so long ago— at Brighton. And it was so lovely and warm beneath his hardy silver-polish and wine crate-hewn, yet neatly buffed fingertips—so soft that he just could not stop himself from stroking over the back of her hand with his thumb—just once— and her pupils widened even further in dark shock and that beautiful peach-toned blush rose again and deepened upon her cheeks. He cannot ever remember seeing or feeling anything sweeter in his life. _'G-Goodnight, Mr Carson"_ she had squeaked out in a strangled sort of whisper. " _Thank you for the wine.'_ And then she had turned and was gone from his room before he could finish blinking away his astonishment. But once he had come to his senses, and despite the suddenness of the feeling of loss as she drew her hand away from his, Charles could not help but smile broadly to himself as he whistled and hummed into the still and silent air of the Abbey—a delirious little ditty bubbled forth as he locked up his pantry for the night and tripped a little more lightly up the backstairs to his bed that night: _She looked so neat and charming…In every high degree…She looked so neat and nimble-o,…._ _Dashing away with the smoothing iron, dashing away with the smoothing iron…she stole my heart away…_ And by the time he reached his room, the song seemed to naturally morph into a more distinct and sure line as he blessed his bedside table photograph of Mrs Hughes with a sweet goodnight and finally drifted away into Morpheus arms with a satisfied little smile still gracing his lip _—and I stole-her- heart—a-waayy…_

And so today, after Mrs Hughes' nearly imperceptible relaxing of her shoulders upon him entering the room, Charles remained just as sure as he was by the end of last night—that he is still in with a showing; that his company is not anathema to her anymore; and, that he does indeed have a real chance to steal her heart away so that he alone can always keep it safe within his own...especially if all of his house purchase machinations fall properly into line. _Murray said 'By Christmas!'_ His fingers flutter in anticipation at the thought of his carefully laid plans all coming to fruition! And now Charles is truly at his ease in Mrs Hughes silent company and relaxed regard, (despite the fact that she would not meet his eye at the luncheon table today, which he _had_ understood). But they are alone now, and so it can be just them again for a spell.

Upon entering Charles had puttered quietly about the room, tending to the low fire in the grand and yet homely fireplace of the main section of the split library before selecting, seemingly at random, one of his secretly favourite books from a shelf and a position he could actually find in the dark of night, if ever the needs should must. Mrs Hughes had already unshuttered several of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the room that allows such pleasant light to always stream into the library—so as to see to her polishing work more easily. Charles wandered over to the furthest end window, close to where she is working, so that he too might better peruse his favourite colour plates of delicate fishing flies and trout species of the British Isles.*** And so Charles stood there quietly and comfortably, as they both became engrossed in their respective tomes, with the stately grandfather clock in the ante-library room ticking solidly away at the remains of the day, and their breathing finding relaxing rhythm together with the heavenly sounds of no one about to interrupt them.

oOOo

Joseph hesitates outside the door to the small ante-library before he can gird himself enough to silently turn the door handle. He has already searched high and low and in all of the likely places across the Abbey in order to deliver Mr Bates' letters to Mr Carson, and he has not found him anywhere. The library is the only feasible place left that the Butler may be. Joseph swallows nervously as he softly steps towards the imposing pillars that mark the entry point into the main library. And there he hovers, but no so much nervously anymore, for Joseph is actually struck stone still by the vision set before him—a scene of golden light and warmth that flings him back to a time when he was completely wide-eyed with wonder at the world…

All baby haired and freckle-faced and with ears too big for his head. Grubby fingered and with dirt beneath his nails and mud upon the knees of his patched half-pants…maybe only four years old (if Joseph were actually clear enough of mind right now to fathom just how little he was in the time when this memory occurred and that is currently assailing him—he really has so few actual recollections of that time in his life). Automatically, Joseph runs his hand over his left hip pocket, feeling for an ancient talisman that he cannot actually carry with him as he once did, (as he still does on his half-days)—as he once did on every day of his life—for sadly, to carry it now would ruin the elegant lines of his crisp livery. But he found his special talisman on that same day long, long ago. It was in the garden bed where he was supposedly helping his dad with digging in the last of the straw and blood and bone laid down in the mid-winter around the rootstocks of the roses that his dad had cultivated from some trimmings from the Abbey gardens where he worked every day—back from before Joseph was even born. Mr Molesley Senior has told Joseph in the years since then—a gift his Dad gave to Joseph's own mother when the couple were first married. That is what his old Dad has always said…only a year before Joseph himself was born.

And in Joseph's current vision of that time, he sees himself—almost from the outside…but not quite…he can see his little brown leather mud-caked boots before him—hears their squelchy thudding upon the packed earth floor of the boot room and then on the floorboards as he barrels around the doorway and over the stoop of the little kitchen in the cottage that they have always lived in. And he feels the memory of his body swinging to a stop as he grabbed the door jamb so as to halt his body's momentum. He smells a sweetness the air again—back then—when he stalled as still as a stone back then—stalled at the vision of his Ma and Da on that early spring day—the winter had seemed short and mild that year…And how…there was a golden light of late afternoon around his Ma's face…his dad—dark-haired and fresh-faced standing to the side of Ma in his woollen waistcoat and rolled shirtsleeves…facing into her …and handing her the first blushed bloom of the season—crisp and mostly closed up in the late afternoon chill…but that his Ma would show Joseph again in the glass bottle vase the next morning on the sill—all opened to the sunshine of the new day— pure and white. Joseph sees again—the bow of his Ma's head and the sweet smile on her lips as she takes in the aroma of that little gift …and he sees his Dad's hand as it rises to meet his Ma's as she lowers the rose to the waistband of her apron…sees again the proud softness in his Da's gaze… _Dad's eyes are wet,_ Joseph clearly remembers thinking that _…_ and he remembers now—again —how he had felt left out …on the outside of all that…outside of all of that love…but he also instinctively knew that this was something that he just should not barge in on… _Ma tells me it's rude to interrupt_ …And the conflict inside of him back then still remains— between his want and the what of might be the right thing to do. Back then the feelings and fears had made young Joseph fidget and drop the treasure he had found that he wanted so very desperately to show to his Ma.

" _Joseph, my boy…come. It's all right…come to Mumma_ … always beckoning him nearer—just as if she had always known he was hiding right there in plain sight, watching that private moment between her and Joseph's Dad. And at that clear direction, little Joseph picked up his treasure and barrelled straight into her skirts and clutched them tight and closed his eyes into the warmth of her and the smell of fresh bread and lemon marmalade on her apron, even as he fumbled and dropped his treasure again and he felt his Dad ruffle the back of his hair with his hardy hand—big enough to cover his whole head.

"" _What have you found there m'lad? And be careful of your Mother's dress, you'll get it all dirty with your mucky paws, boy."  
_

And Joseph had raised his head away and tried to gaze past his Mumma's big soft belly that had felt all warm pressed onto the top of his head— _big as the biggest football ever!—_ to try to tell his Dad as well— but he couldn't quite see him to tell him all about his precious treasure. And he wished that his Mumma would pick him up like she used to so he can be up high and tell his Dad about his treasure as well, but Mumma doesn't pick him up so much now and she tells him that he is her little man now—but he knows that he is not because he is not _at all_ like his Dad—but she still says that he is far too big and heavy for her to pick up now…and he can't seem to believe that either, because he is nowhere _near_ as big as his Mumma's squishy and taut football tummy.

" _Sorry, Dad."_ And Joseph tries to brush away the dirt his hands have left on his Ma's skirts and he recalls how it all made it a lot worse and his Mumma had stilled his hands and smiled and laughed a little—softly— and told him not to worry—she would fix it. _She would fix it._

" _What have you found there m'lad?"_

" _A treasure! I found it in the garden, Dad! Watcha fink it is?"_

" _Well, I don't know, Lad…What do you think, Rosie?"_

" _Let's wash it in the bucket. Here Joseph, let me see what you've got there…There we go…all fixed"_

"Y' _know what ye've found there, Lad?"_

" _What Dad? What?!"_

" _I be reckoning ye've found an old chess piece…I've seen 'em before, I have…just the odd one or two…up near the old Abbey. Likely from the days before Cromwell's troupes sacked the placed, I'm a-thinkin'. Don't see chess pieces like 'em much nowadays. They're a right funny shape they are."_

" _What's Chess? Whose Cromwell? Is it lots of Old?!"_

" _It's a game, Joseph, and it's very, very old…a game with lots of different pieces—Pawns and Bishops and Rooks and Kings and Queens—all black and white"_ his mother added. _"Your Dad can teach you to play it when you get a little older."_

" _I like games. What have I got? What piece have I got?"_

" _Well, I'm none too sure, lad…it looks a funny old thing don't it, Rosie? What do you think?"_

" _Well it's a bit dirt-stained from the ground …but do you know what I think it is, Joseph?"_

" _What Mumma?"_ Gasped out in anticipation (hoping it is a King!)^ _,_ as his Mumma crouched down a little then and handed back to Joseph the deer antler carved chess piece —dome-shaped with odd circle and striped markings around it, and a long triangular sort of face tacked up the topmost of one side of it.

She handed the water glistening piece back to her little man, " _I think it is a white knight—honest and brave and strong and true—just like my special Joseph. My precious little white knight."_

" _Really?...You really think so, Ma?!"_ He gasped out in awe.

" _I_ _know_ _so"._ And Joseph remembers the sweetness of her kiss upon his little button nose.

And his Mumma had told him that again…not long afterwards when she kissed him goodnight one time and her lips were clammy and he had to spend the night at old widow Wigan's place across the road. Joseph hated old Mrs Wigan…her voice was sharp and high and it always hurt his ears and she had one big hair under her chin and it scared him… and his mum had sent him there anyway and said he had to be her brave white knight and be very strong for her…but it was hard to be strong when he was so scared…And when he got back home…mummy and her squishy and taut football tummy wasn't there and she never was again and he did not feel at all like a white knight that could actually ride out to find the princess—he only felt very, very little and it was very, very hard for him to ever be brave again after that—especially when he always had to spend so much time at his Nan's or the widow Wigan's with her scratchy voice and chin…and especially when his Dad wouldn't speak to him so much anymore, not for such a long, long time—as his Dad spent more and more time outside. And Joseph would just watch through the kitchen window instead—standing right on the spot where his Ma had last kissed his little nose. And Joseph watched his Dad, with his wet eyes, as he toiled in the dirt, day after day— out there—with all of his precious and pure white roses.

oOOo

And in the Abbey library, the air is cosy and redolent with the sweetness of lemon oil-based furniture polish Mrs Hughes has been using. The scarlet tones of the room add to the warmth of the space on this rapidly darkening winter's day, especially with the last light from the horizon pushing through with serene force to glow off the satin red and gold blushed drapes and the cedar bookshelves. The amber light of the remains of the day pours onto Charles book where he stands in the far-right window alcove near to Mrs Hughes. And he imagines the warmth of the sun touching his skin, more so than he can actually feel it through the winter chill that is dropping to sit upon the window panes, perceptibly deepening as the day recedes. _Ahh…The Golden Hour,_ Charles muses, as he lifts his eyes from the suddenly illuminated colour plate of two speckled trout species of the northern county streams—the brightness on the page drawing him to watch the origins of the emanation as the last light of this very relaxing day fades across the landscape of Downton.

Oh…Mrs Hughes,…" Charles breath hitches a little before he intones with an air of quiet reverence as he gazes out of the windows of the main library. "…Come…You simply must see the first snowfall for the season."

Still keeping his eyes affixed to the stunning view afforded across the park through the lofted French windows, he turns his body slightly from within the window alcove and he reaches towards her, hand outstretched and ready to assist Mrs Hughes up from her low seated position near the bookshelves so that she may join him.

"Come." He almost whispers as the snowfall always seems to deaden the sounds of the world down to a peaceful silence as it drifts, and hangs, and then shifts in mid-air, and slowly, slowly falls again in the first flurries for the season.

His head and eyes are slow to follow the movement of his body, reluctant as he is to miss any of the stunning glint of the golden-hour light glowing on the frost piqued lawns and cedars of the western sweep of the Abbey grounds and across all of the fallow ploughed meadow and the woods beyond.^^ But his eyes finally do catch her own and an instant glow of the same soft warmth of the sunlight kindles in his eyes at the sensation of her soft and delicate and warm hand within his own once more. _Brighton,_ his heart whispers. He remains in silent deference to the moment and gently draws her to his side to see the view.

As Mrs Hughes settles next to him, with her straight-backed yet slight and calm solidity, he hears as her breathing also pauses at the beauty of the sight laid out before them. He glances briefly outside to the glowing lawns and glistening puffs of snowflakes as they softly alight upon the great drooping cedar branches— the whole scene bathed in ambers, reds and purple highlights as the sun, now below the horizon line, shoots forth its final shafts of glory to the day. Then he feels the gentle warmth of the rays settle upon his face and he knows that it also sits upon her soft cheeks and so his eyes are magnetically drawn towards her serene visage. Her eyes have closed briefly to the beauty laid out before her as she finally draws in another reverent breath. The russet undertones of her hair reflect all of the golden hour's splendour and she seems to glow outward from within as she opens her eyes again and breaths out his name.

"Oh…Mr _Carr-son_ …" for there are no other words.

Even after the wonders of the revelation that was last night, as he gazes at his love now—in this singular moment, Charles knows that he has never seen nor heard anything more beautiful in all his life.

Finally, he manages to whisper out a request of her, if only as a means to stop himself from reaching up with a single fingertip to twirl around it just one single golden curl of her hair that has come loose from her braided and neatly tucked style, and which is catching the deepest glow of the last rays of sunlight for the day. To him, her hair is just as perfectly tidy as it _should_ be in this precious moment, and he wants so very much to be able to twist just this infinitesimally small part of her around his own little finger for a change.

"What is it you are reading, Mrs Hughes?" he intones softly, not wanting to break the quiet reverence of the moment. He likes being wrapped within this slowly floating instant with her alone— somehow wishes that it could all last forever.

Sensing the same deep need, Elsie opens to the page in her tome that is marked by her finger and without preamble, she reads softly for them both.

oOOo

 _Glory be to God for dappled things –_

 _For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;_

 _For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;_

 _Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;_

 _Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;_

 _And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim._

 _ooo_

 _All things counter, original, spare, strange;_

 _Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)_

 _With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;_

 _He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:_

 _Praise him^^^_

 _oOOo_

"Amen" Charles breathes out low as he keeps his eyes fixed in awe upon the sweet dappled blush of light across her cheekbones until she slowly turns her eyes up to his and liquid amber streaks across blue as her pupils dazzle-widen at the beauty that is without change and that she can see inside the depths of his sweet eyes.

"Quite," is all that she can whisper in return as they float, pure and white and together before Joseph's stone stunned eyes within this Golden Hour.

oOOooOOooOOooOOooOOo

 **I hope you liked this. Reviews would be most welcome regarding the tack I took here...I am still not entirely sure why it seemed important or even useful to present this particular vision of Charles and Elsie through Joseph Molesley's eyes and childhood recollections. Let me know what you think. BTF : )**

 **For those interested in such things—**

 **Various Author Notes** **:**

 _(remove additional spaces on any of the hyperlinks and hopefully you can still find these pages of information online)._

* **My imagined version of Violet Crawley's (nee Duncombe) background** and the provenance of the Feversham Clandelabras has been loosely based on the Baronetcy of Feversham. Her father could have been the 2nd Baron William Duncombe- agriculturalist and Ultra-Tory. Comparatively new money in the Victorian age. I like the idea that The Dowager is actually putting on quite a show of elitism about her position within the Crawley/Grantham line. Perhaps her 'more humble' beginnings explain some of her behaviours in different situations. She had not been unfeeling about Joseph Moelsys' circumstances when Mr Bates went to her to help him out of his poor woes post-Matthew's death... The Dowager's heart does not exist purely to pump blood about her regal personage.

 **See :** wiki/William_Duncombe,_2nd_Baron_Feversham#Background

 **The Duncombe's family pile :** wiki/Duncombe_Park

** **Interesting cookery trivia** —Apparently many traditions of what we know of as an English Christmas, including the timings on when to soak fruits and make and hang Christmas puddings in timing with the Anglican liturgical calendar became fashionable under Queen Victoria and Prince Albert's reign. Another example is the Germanic origins of decorating a Christmas tree, and burning a Yuletide log—likely instigated by Prince Albert's origins. Sending greeting cards at Christmas also came into fashion in the Victorian age.

*** **Further notes on what this ancient and favourite tome of Carson's** (Alfred Ronald's Fly Fisher's Entymology) can be found at the end of Chapter 30 (Delicate Negotiations Pt 1) in my Honeymoon fiction "The Acquisition of Memories".

 **Medieval chess pieces made from bone and deer antlers and sometimes carved stone** _._

The first link is to some on display at the ruins of Riveaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, not far from where the fictional Downton Abbey would be situated, and the real Duncombe Park. They are the style that I imagine Joseph Molesley would have found in digging about at the edges of the lands of Downton Abbey-

https. / www. telegraph. co. uk/news/2016/06/01/revealed-the-monastic-treasures-henry-viiis-men-missed/

The second link below has many pictures of similarly abstract styled ancient chess pieces. The picture of the Chess Pawn, Nassington, Tithe Barn Museum UK is what I imagine Molesley might have found, but I also like the thought that he may have found a knight as pictured to the right of the pawn, or earlier on the page, a possible king like the one from the Nicholas Devine Collection— because a Pawn seems too obvious an analogy for poor old Bumbling Joseph. I like to think that his mother saw him as a brave knight —supported him to be his best while she could…Perhaps Joseph ended up finding more than one piece…but I think his interest in the discipline of history could also have these early origins in his life.

Plus, I also think that Joseph has had to learn the hard and long way about how to be brave and honourable, even though he was often knocked off the board like a pawn before he got to a point where he could help Baxter defend herself against Thomas, and now by helping the Bateses. That said, pawns in chess work best when they work together and can impact the mode/possibilities of attack of the stronger pieces on the board and so pawns can actually thwart many a well-laid plan!… hmm...

http : history. chess. free. fr/ first- european. htm

^^ **My use of the golden hour as a motif in this chapter** :

The colours aren't quite what I imagined— not nearly as strong or couple-coloured, but the story thumbnail and the link below, give the idea of the view from the library window that Charles and Elsie are enjoying. This is a shot of golden hour snow in Yorkshire somewhere:

i. pinimg originals/ ba/ 9c/ 29/ ba9c29 554 073 aa 479f 51715 fefd 36 b29. jpg

 _^^^ **Pied Beauty** w_ritten by English Catholic Jesuit priest, poet and some-time depressive, Gerard Manly Hopkins, in 1877 but not published until 1919, 30 years after his death.

oOOo.

BTF

oOOo


	13. Ch 13—Inevitable Interruptions

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs. _Chapter 13—Inevitable Interruptions._**

 **Dear Readers,**

 **I have been away from this for a very long time and I have to admit that I have struggled with editing this latest chapter together. It does contain many italicised lines of dialogue from S.5. Ep. 9, and many characters' subtle perspectives on many things. Not all of this is completely Chelsie-centric, but there are concomitant story arcs that have popped up in this household full of interrelated people that will need to be wrapped up by the end of this particular fiction. I do hope Chapter 13 does work well enough as a bit of a bridging piece before I can jump forward to the days leading up to the famous S.5. Christmas Special and my particular take on every Chelsie fans' favourite scene.**

 **I do seem to move as slowly with my large fictions as our dear old Boobies! Thanks to those who are willing to stick with this. If I try really hard, I _might_ be able to have the Christmas night scenes between Charles and Elsie posted in time for our actual Christmas Eve. I dare not promise it though… By NYE seems more likely, truth be told: /**

 **Merry Christmas to all Chelsie fans, if I do not get to say it again before the 24** **th** **/25** **th** **!**

 **Regards,  
BorneToFlow.**

Given that it has been a while, this chapter begins with a brief reprise from the end of _**Chapter 12—The Golden Hour**_ :

oOOo

"What is it you are reading, Mrs Hughes?" he intones softly, not wanting to break the quiet reverence of the moment. He likes being wrapped within this slowly floating instant with her alone— somehow wishes that it could all last forever.

Sensing the same deep need, Elsie opens to the page in her tome that is marked by her finger and without preamble, she reads softly for them both.

oOOo

 _Glory be to God for dappled things –_

 _For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;_

 _For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;_

 _Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;_

 _Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;_

 _And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim._

 _ooo_

 _All things counter, original, spare, strange;_

 _Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)_

 _With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;_

 _He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:_

 _Praise him^^^_

 _oOOo_

"Amen" Charles breathes out low as he keeps his eyes fixed in awe upon the sweet dappled blush of light across her cheekbones until she slowly turns her eyes up to his and liquid amber streaks across blue as her pupils dazzle-widen at the beauty that is without change and that she can see inside the depths of his sweet eyes.

"Quite," is all that she can whisper in return as they float, pure and white and together before Joseph's stone stunned eyes within this Golden Hour.

oOOooOOooOOooOOooOOo

 **Still Wednesday, 2nd December 1925**

 **Very late afternoon of the day after the round table dinner. Downton Abbey**

"Mr Molesley. It's alright, you may come in." Mrs Hughes directs towards the nervous man she spies in her periphery vision, and as a means to halt Mr Carson from acting upon a notion she thinks she has just registered in the depths of his eyes.

"Ghrrm. What have you got there, Mr Molesley", Carson turns to ask gruffly and with far less charity in his tone than Mrs Hughes had affected, since their timeless moment within the Golden Hour has had to face the inevitable interruption of a household interloper. Carson feels wrenched and peevish…and just a little flustered that this intensely private and precious moment with his beloved has been observed by an… _underling_. He takes solace in the fact that Mr Molesley seems to be mimicking the expression of one of the colour plates of a common trout from Carson's favourite reference book on fly fishing and so it appears the man has not necessarily put two and two together about what had just passed between the two heads of staff.

Joseph flinches slightly at Mr Carson's tone such that his hands fidget and he narrowly avoids dropping the envelopes he is holding.

"Urrmm,.. arh… th-they are some letters, Mr Carson, from-from Mr Bates. He was here…briefly… I-I think they are important.

"What you _think_ is of little matter" Carson continues being snippy, but not uncharacteristically so to anyone's ears but Mrs Hughes' and she knows better than to roll her eyes at Charles' slightly exaggerated response and potentially undermine him in front of his staff.

 _Ha! Charles again is he, Elsie Mae?_

Instead, she deftly covers for him and somehow soothes the frayed nerves of both men by cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

"Here Mr Molesley, let us see what you've got there," she commands with that smooth steel of authority she wields so effortlessly, while also flicking a glance to Mr Carson to ensure that he actually does reach out for the letters rather than her usurping his right to correspondence that has clearly been addressed to the man himself — _No sense risking_ _that_ _particular path with him again_ …—"I take it Mr Bates was not long back from London," she surmises correctly, while, under the barely registered gesture of direction from Mrs Hughes, Carson decides to forego demanding some sort of fumbling explanation from the visibly squirming Mr Molesley.

"Let's see what's to be found out. Thank you… Mr Molesley."

Joseph continues to nervously hover to attention nearby as Mr Carson quickly reads the disturbing note Mr Bates addressed to him. It goes without saying that he must have Mrs Hughes fully cognisant of this development so he quickly hands the paper over to her when he is done. And as ever, Carson is soon affirmed in his instincts in doing so, for the contents are surely beyond his current capacity to handle without her insights and steady guidance.

Joseph finally musters up the courage to speak again as he can see Mrs Hughes finish reading the note, "M-Mr Bates left as soon as he gave these to me."

"Well I never," Mrs Hughes sighs out on a breath. "When was that?"

Joseph swallows hard, having hoped he would not have to confess to his tardiness, but it is done and better that it comes from him than Mrs Patmore filling in the details of his silliness to Mrs Hughes later tonight, "Ahh-A-about an hour or so ago."

Worse than an open reprimand, Mrs Hughes glares somewhat frustratedly at him, and Mr Carson appears rather incredulous at the ineptitude of his first footman.

"Well…" Mrs Hughes breathes out on a sigh that is heavy with a sudden exhaustion as the reality of this fraught situation shatters any equilibrium and peace she had actually found on this pleasant afternoon spent quietly in Mr Carson's steady and silent presence. "Hmmm… well, he obviously did not want us to follow him. But I think we ought to go down and share these with Mrs Patmore. Perhaps Mr Bates alluded to some plans when she was seeing him towards the door after dinner last night."

oOOo

"Thank you for the tea, Mrs Patmore." Mrs Hughes offers now that they are all settled at the servants' table and have each read through Mr Bates' note. "So _h,_ What are we to make of it all? _The letters to His Lordship and Mr Murray must tell the same story."_

"But _Why confess?"_ Mr Carson expresses a level of consternation that all at the table feel to some level. Mr Bates actions just seem to have thrown another large spanner into the works and not one of the adults present can think that messing with the British justice system in such a way is a viable way out of the troubles that Mrs Bates currently faces. All of them having been raised to live by the edict that honesty is indeed the best policy…and that perhaps only the timing of releasing any honest professions is what may need to be wrestled with. " _It makes no sense. The police said someone short pushed Mr Green."_ Mr Carson has steadily moved from consternation to low-level frustration as his thoughts have finally coalesced into speech _. "Mr Bates isn't short!"_

" _Didn't he spend that day in York? The lost ticket was never used."_ Mr Molesley offers.

" _If only it wasn't lost."_ Mr Carson abhors the disorderliness of such a thing happening, even though he knows it is the height of ridiculousness to think that an outdated train ticket should be put anywhere other than in a wastepaper basket.

" _Do we know what he was doing there?"_ Mr Molesley asks with an air of terrier-like interest that is not entirely customary in the man, but after last night, he feels he actually does have a voice that will be heard on heftier matters, plus he feels a strong need to contribute to fixing this because of how he had hesitated to be a man who would take whatever actions was necessary when the need arose, as Mr Bates had alluded to last night over dinner.

" _He said he had lunch in a pub, but he couldn't remember which one."_ Mrs Patmore offers, though how she came to know this little germ of information is anyone's guess.

" _There are hundreds of pubs in York."_ Mr Carson points out the scale of the issue they face if they actually think that any useful enquiries might come of that piece of distant historical information.

" _But Mr Bates had lunch in one of them."_ Mr Molesley with a tenacity borne of dogged earnestness…and some small belief that he has the wherewithal to be methodical in his research of all the various sides of a historical problem.

"well, _I don't believe he's guilty, whatever he's written there."_ Mrs Hughes smoothes her fingertips over the open parchment again as she focusses on her recollection of the determined set of the man she saw disappear into the cold dark of night and away from the illusion of feeble warmth dripping from the back porch light last night. " _He just wants Anna out of prison, and I don't blame him for that."_ She adds somewhat forlornly. "He said last night he could not bear for even the first Mrs Bates to be imprisoned, so why would he ever abide our Anna lingering there for so long?" She finishes with sad wisdom.

Mr Molesley is quite determined now. He offered to help Mr Bates in any way he could, and he suspects that now is his chance to take whatever action is needed of a man. He feels the exciting rush of something that he thinks might be akin to valour when he tries to keep his spirits bright for the sake of the household leaders who, in all honesty, seem to be somewhat at a loss at the moment. Joseph recalls overhearing Mr Carson saying to Mrs Hughes on the day of the Memorial dedication that 'one must always travel in hope ', after she had quietly mentioned the state of the sorrows that seems to follow the Bateses, but even Mr Carson seems overly listless this eventide, and certainly bereft of any clear ideas to move forward with at the moment

" _Might I have the key for Mr Bates' cottage?"_ Joseph pipes in _"You never know, he might have left a clue as to where he was going."_

" _Well, I'm not sure what we'll do with it if he has, but you can have the key._ "Mrs Hughes replies in a lacklustre fashion, _well_ knowing how ill things may turn if the British justice system continues to chew at the wrong end of the stick on this—much as they did when Mr Bates was assumed guilty of a crime he did not commit and Mrs Hughes own words were twisted beyond recognition inside the court of truth and the supposed realm of justice _._ She never did quite believe Mr Carson's ongoing trust in British Justice that day of the Memorial service—the reminder of far too many lives having already been lost to the powers-that-be and their illusions of might and right was far too clear for her to be fully soothed by Charles' valiant attempt to buck her up again. But Mr Molesley is already on his feet and awaiting her action to retrieve the key from the parlour, and so Elsie misses the slight and quite automatic gesture Mr Carson makes to reach somehow for her and an offer her another gaze of sympathetic encouragement. Charles clenches his hand into a small ball when he realises what he was about to do in front of everyone and instead looks after her retreating figure trailed by the strangely determined Mr Molesley who at least seems to have some sort of plan in mind. Carson feels old and dithering in comparison until he finds himself surreptitiously prompted to action by Mrs Patmore's next turn of phrase.

"Well, I'd best be getting on and seeing to clearing up all of this mess."

"Quite right, Mrs Patmore." Carson stands and abruptly to wrench himself in to some sort of action." Allow me to help you clear away."

"Right you are, Mr Carson" Mrs Patmore offers him a kind smile that morphs into an all-knowing one as she turns in front of him with the biscuits platter in hand and leads him into the kitchen carting a tray holding the remains of their soiled dishes.

 **oOOo**

 **Monday 7th December 1925 Mid-afternoon**

The Front Entrance courtyard of Downton Abbey.

Molesley and Carson are milling about in a semi-relaxed form of attention as they await the arrival of the cars from their long journey back from Moorlands. Both stiffen noticeably now that the cars are approaching on the final sweep up to the front door, standing fully to attention in enough time for any of the car's occupants to actually spy them at their duties.

" _Welcome back, My Lord,"_ Carson intones with the true relief he feels at his Master's return hidden as he sees His Lordship and Her Ladyship out of their motor.

" _Carson."_

The children are bundled towards their parents' cars by the Nannies, and as much as he would like to scoop his little treasures up like any good Donk should do, Lord Grantham sees that Carson has some sort of important news for him to attend to first.

" _There's been a development while you were away. Mr Bates has gone."_ He gravely informs His Lordship.

" _I don't understand. Gone where?"_

" _We don't know, My Lord, but he's left you a letter."_

" _How very mysterious."_ Robert side glances towards Cora to check she is abreast of this latest announcement, knowing that he will need her sound counsel as he faces this latest battlefront.

Barrow overhears with eagle ears but he must continue his role of loyal Under butler without flaw there is too much at stake for him, given how he may still be called to account by His Lordship for the part he somewhat imprudently played in almost exposing Lord Sydenham's sins while at Brancaster. Only Lady Mary stands between him and yet another brush with professional ruin, and when Under duress, without her _Angel Anna Bates_ nearby, Lady Mary is just as likely to shoot and take him out with one word as she is to understand and protect him.

" _Come on_ " Barrow Signals to the hall boy waiting in the background and must regrettable leave behind any chance of overhearing what this latest development about His Greatness the Valet Long John _Bloody_ Bates.

oOOo

Downstairs

Having gleaned the bare bones of when John Bates disappeared from Daisy and Mrs Patmore, and itching to know more, Barrow accosts Carson with dogged questions as soon as he spies the man descending from the Green Baize door.

" _Mr Carson. So, does that mean I stay on as valet_?" he asks with a slight smile that he just brings under control in time, for there is still the chance that Barrow will have the privilege of working a little more closely to His Lordship for longer and possibly gaining some information of use, if not of favour. " _Or am I expected to double up?"_ Even with the perceived advantage of the situation at the forefront of his mind, Barrow cannot help but play the most hard done by party in all of this current mess.

" _It all has to be thought through"_ Mr Carson replies with an air of frustration and some annoyance at himself that he had not actually given thought to how his rostering of staff would all play out once his Lordship returned. He feels once again as if he is losing his touch—that there are just too many balls to keep up in the air… _and still no word from Murray about Brounker Rd!_

Barrow scuffs a mental foot at in annoyance at the fact that Mr Carson is unwilling to make a firm decision in Barrow's favour yet again. Oh, he is firm enough when needs be, but sometimes Barrow wishes that Old Carson had benefited from some time in the military…. Still, at least Carson is not a Stowell-like character. It is, after all, a much easier prospect to work with a man who is inherently honest than not, Thomas thoughts slink deftly around his own hypocrisy. Still, even in his absence, Bates still seems to thwart all Thomas' ambitions as the favoured son that he is to His Lordship it seems.

" _They must release Mrs Bates now that they've got a confession_." Miss Baxter offers sympathetically,

" _No doubt His Lordship is telephoning Mr Murray as we speak."_

… _Perhaps he will ask to speak to me as well!_ Carson has never felt time drag as much as it has this last week as he awaits some sign that his far more important issues about the house purchase will fall into place. So much of his future is riding upon this one decision that he is finding it increasingly difficult to focus clearly on all of the work that still needs to be done on the lead up to Christmas. However, the air of purposefulness in his tone has been just enough to let all and sundry know that there _is_ no more to be known, and even if there was, that there is no more that Mr Carson is willing to divulge about any of his concerns.

oOOo

In the main library after the divesting of many a stately hat.

" _Will he be hiding somewhere?"_ Edith takes on the air of a dogged reporter after a hot lead.

 _"In Ireland, I presume,"_ although Robert actually suspects there is much more than one degree of separation between the message in the letter from bates and the means by which he may be contacted and found. " _He has family there and the English police are not too well regarded if they try to find him_."

Edith internally cringes at this fraught political allusion and she is aware in the periphery of her vision that Tom has looked aside with a clear expression on his face that fairly shouts 'And it's no bloody wonder!' However, he somehow manages to hold his tongue. Since Edith's confirmation about Marigold, Tom is once more set further along the path of being more prudent with expressing his opinions within this household. Edith internally sighs in relief at how stalwart her brother-in-law is. Her secret shall remain safe from Mary for the time being at least.

But, of course, it is mere seconds before Mary has something to say about the current news to hand.

" _Why hasn't Anna been released?"_ she cries out with high strung concern, _"Why did Carson wait?_ "

Grim and to the point Robert deftly cuts Mary short without an answer, " _I'll telephone Murray now."_ Not wanting his man to be under any unfair scrutiny from his daughter, no one knows the full story, but one thing is sure, both Carson and Robert know that Bates does not _want_ to be found and that he must have some sound reasoning behind his actions. They both trust the man and Carson was as prudent as Robert could desire. Unfortunately, Mary can tend, at times of stress and intricate complexity, to not to act in the most becoming manner towards others. _"He'll be able to get her out_." Robert finishes on a more determined and supportive tone. For there is action to be taken, and Robert is pleased that he is still the man to be able to take it in this situation.

Cora looks after her husband with an appreciative look, but her ever-present concern tinges her expression for him, for she does worry that he will become too stressed with all of this news and not take care of his current fragile health well enough.

" _I don't believe for a moment that Bates did it,_ " Cora says with her customary balance and kindness.

" _No! But neither did Anna"._ Mary cries indignantly once more—Still unwilling to be placated in her concerns _"So, it won't be unjust to set her free."_

"Of course not, Dear" Cora soothes, now in her fully concerned motherly tone.

oOOo

Downstairs once more

" _Have you caught up with yourself?_ Mr Molesley smiles shyly at Miss Baxter as they meet in the hallway at the base of the back stairs.

" _I'll be straight by the time they finish dinner_ ," Phyllis cannot help but smile for his asking after her. He truly is the kindest man she has ever met she thinks as he turns to be about his business. Then she calls after him and she catches the full light of his smile from their little exchange and thinks again of what a dear he is…realises how much he actually _wants_ to check on her lowly concerns.

" _Mr Molesley, when you said earlier about what you were planning to do for Mr Bates_ , _using his photo…"_ Mister Molesley face has fallen as she speaks into an aspect of slightly tragic concern, and as it always does tend to whenever he awaits any new information that might knock him off the happy tack he had just managed to set sailing upon.

" _Yes?_ ," he breathes out, trying to sound steadier than he feels.

" _I'd like to be helpful_." Miss Baxter continues, " _I'd like to …come with yeh'_.

" _Would you?_ Incredulously – genuinely shocked that Mis Baxter would give up her time so freely to help the Bateses, for he knows that they have been fairly open in their disdain for how Miss Baxter might inadvertently 'help' their situation in the past. _"Because that would help a LOT_! "Mr Molesley continues on nervous laugh, suddenly relieved that Miss Baxter will be present as he works his way through the list of public houses in York where Mr Bates may have stayed for lunch on the fatal date in question.

Joseph had spent all of yesterday there traipsing into as many pubs as he could, only to find that the fact that he is a man trying to find another somewhat swarthy looking fellow with a described limp meant that most publicans smelt trouble afoot and they promptly wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. With a lady in tow, despite the ignominy of having to drag a lady such as Miss Baxter into so very many pubs being undesirable for her reputation, Joseph knows that her way of framing the inquiry after Mr Bates will be met with far more honest responses. _She could perhaps pretend that Mr Bates is her brother she has lost contact with_. He just hopes that they will not think too often that Miss Baxter might be some hard-done-by wife of the man in the photograph, and that any kindly publican is merely hoping that a chap that would cheat on such a lady deserves all that he has coming to him.

And so, he says what any gentleman would in order to protect Mis Baxter from anyone casting aspersions on her character again, should they find out that he escorted her to so many ale houses in the course of a few days. " _But I don't want anyone else to know._

 _Not unless it works."_ Joseph's nervous laughter vainly attempts to cover himself for the real reason he wants their trips to remain secret— he really is just so rapt that Miss Baxter would agree to spending time with him in whatever form it may take— even in charitable industriousness. But the way that she also nervously smiles and looks down at her hands does give Joseph some hope that Miss Baxter does actually want, at least in part, to spend the time with _him_ in York.

"Well…Mr Molesley," Miss Baxter continues, "we will have to tell Mrs Hughes at the very least, for she is the only one that can change our rosters to coincide…but she is one for a secret, Her Ladyship always maintains, we can trust her to keep Mum on all of this."

"You're brilliant, d'you know that? You think of everything that I don't" Joseph knows that he is gushing now, but cannot seem to help himself.

"Well, I don't know about that, Mr Molesley." She looks down shyly once more and strokes at her ladyship's fine overcoat in her arms before she turns away to let them get back to their respective work.

 _IS it wrong of me to want to go to a hundred pubs with Mr Molesley?_ Phyllis cannot help but wonder.

oOOo

Later that Monday evening in Cora and Robert's bedroom.

Cora sits in an attentively upright posture as she watches Robert's graven shoulders as he ties his robe about him, knowing that he wants to unburden himself a little of his concerns from today within their most private space together. He always does when he has had to be somewhat stern and commanding in front of his daughters. His British stiff-upper-lip does have its limits, and of course, she does relish his renewed trust in her since the Bricker uncomfortableness and his candid reasoning for selling the della Francesca. And the practical capitalist American in Cora cannot deny that she is relieved on another front, now that she knows the estate can more ably fund its plans for developing and potentially repurposing some of the older cottages. It does sometimes seem that her whole life has been an endless stream of trying to keep the behemoth that is Downton Abbey fiscally afloat…not to mention her husband's internal resolve… but she does relish the latter with a joy deep enough that the former concern is but a trifle in the trajectory her life has taken. And as much as she has sometimes internally questioned the wisdom of their ongoing support of the Bateses, she knows firsthand that Anna can be trusted implicitly with all of her errant family's somewhat untoward secrets: and she also accepts that any man that Robert asserts to having saved his life, even once, _is_ worthy of their support. These last days have sadly reminded her of just how much she stands to lose if ever anything happens to her Robert. _If only he would take more care of himself…_ she muses for the hundredth time this last week. _He is so very stubborn at times._ She soon focusses all of her attention solely on him now—for she also knows instinctively that there is much he would not say in front of Mary earlier in the library, and right now, Robert needs her full open-mindedness as he traverses this latest drama in the household's life.

"Murray's _sure he can get her out at once."_ Robert finally voices the beginnings of his concerns. _"He's coming up tomorrow."_

" _Well, that's something_." She attempts to prompt without actually prying.

" _Yes."_ He is all grim and downcast again.

" _What is it?"_ She cannot help but jump on the chance to directly prod him into further dialogue _._ Robert's shoulders relax the moment he knows that the burden of his next decision will actually be shared with his wife and so he is able to settle opposite her dressing chair on the ottoman near the end of their bed.

" _In his letter to me, Bates has left instructions for how to get a message through to him._

… _An Irish address and telephone number."_

Her interest peaks at this first notion that there is actually some small hope for finding her husband's chum and maybe dragging the household, once and for all out of this latest sordid mess. She does feel so very weary with it all, what with the spectre of dear Tom and her darling little Sybbie leaving soon playing at the edges of her mind as well, wondering how on Earth she will be able to support Robert to accept all of _that_ in a semi- gracious manner— the girls, she knows, are already coming around to it, Edith a little more easily than Mary, as is generally the case.

" _Has he told anyone else?_ " she still manages to shield the bulk of her true concerns from him.

" _Not as far I as I know…Not Carson_." He looks up at her somewhat plaintively, " _What do you think I should do?"_

Cora's eyes almost roll and glance heavenward as she cannot help but think that if Carson were better informed about all of this from Bates…and Mrs Hughes in her turn, that Robert would feel much more solid about what it is he has to do right now. She swallows down on what would have been an audible sigh and remains flawlessly steady as she offers her eminently sound advice. "What _you should do is easy— tell the police._ _But what I would do is keep it secret until we know more."_

Robert looks up at her forlornly, and then down again as he does release an audible sigh for all of this— for all that he must, unfortunately, become to be able to deal with all of this. " _Thank heaven we both have a criminal turn of mind"_ before he looks down somewhat helplessly at the letter in his hands again.

"Come—you are the military man, Lord's Lieutenant Colonel Crawley. Let us just think of it as a tactical manoeuvre. Hmm? Now come, Robert-dear."

Robert looks up at his wife who is already rising and reaching out her hand. As always, she is leagues ahead of him as she leads him towards their bed. And Cora knows the truth of it all right now— that all Robert really wants is to climb into bed and wrap his dear wife up in his arms so that he might be able to forget about this latest battlefront for a while.

oOOo

 **Tuesday 8th December 1925 Mid-afternoon**

Anna ducks her way out of the motor looking pale and wan. She tucks he overcoat and scarf more warmly about her neck as the sharp sunlight pierces her face as she looks up at the lofty clean heights of Downton shrowded in a layer of crisp snow. She squints as if it is a far sharper pain afflicting her, for the sunlight hits like a cloying fairy tale compared to where she has just come from- the grimmest hollow of the grimiest streets of London. Life feels very little like a fairy tale to Anna—inevitably it seems, for in her story-world, it appears she is not destined for a happily ever after with her Nutcracker Soldier Prince with the broken limb.

" _I should go in round the back,"_ she says flatly to Mr Murray, glancing past Mr Carson and not meeting the Butler's eye as he exits the main door. She knows Mr Carson is shielding her from any of his judgement by being a perfectly impassive servant, but he also seems to be strangely distracted in his mien. In a way, it is all for the best, for she knows it would be even harder for her if Mr Carson were to show her any pity or concern. It would not be appropriate for either of them and she would likely weep.

" _No, no, no. Come this way to say hello to His Lordship,"_ Murray insists, ignoring a slightly raised eyebrow from Carson at the suggestion that it is at all the lawyer's place to offer as much to the staff.

But Murray also knows full well that Robert Crawley would not stand on any ceremony in the case of Anna and John Bates. Murray has worked on their various cases long enough to know that in another world these particular servants would be called family in a heartbeat to many of the Crawleys. Besides which, he knows where Carson is pinned right now and how much he is relying upon the lawyer to come through with the goods on his particular property law case in a timely manner— and he has been more than willing to pay whatever is required to have his plans completed before Christmas. Well-schooled in recognising the best and worst that people can try to hide, Murray also knows that Carson was surreptitiously signalling to him for a quiet moment of his time. He reads it just as well as he could read between the lines of their recent meeting in York. And as old and cynical as Murray has become over the years, and as much as the Bates case has commandeered most of his time and efforts this last couple of months, and this last week in particular, Murray feels a strong need to do something good and true and right for the Christmas season. _A man of advancing years like Carson should not be alone_ , George Murray well knows, as his own dear Milly has been such an absolute brick for him as he has chased hither and yon across the countryside trying to solve this latest dilemma for the Crawleys. Sometimes Murray wonders why he does it—the Crawleys seem to always live more by the skin of their teeth than some of his other aristocratic clients. They have certainly given him more than enough work to be getting on with! Still, they have always paid their bills…. in the end. But aside from the fact that snubbing a member of peerage at this level would prove reputationally imprudent for the firm, George Murray's old Dad always vouched for the integrity of the 6th Earl, and he knows that the 7th Earl follows in his father's footsteps to a very large degree. They all of them must traverse some murky waters in their work, Murray figures, but there is something about the Crawleys that keeps George devoted to their various causes on a more than professional level. He actually does _like_ them... _Especially the Old Bat—She could have made a fearsome QC*_. _And Carson deserves as good a turn as the next hardworking man,_ Murray figures.

" _I saw the car._ _What a relief."_ His Lordship smiles so kindly at Anna that she is certain she _will_ weep if he carries on in such a fatherly manner, and then Lady Mary looks as if she might even break through all societal ranks to hug her. Under Carson's stern but unnoticed gaze, Lady Mary just manages to curb her enthusiasm for having her dearest confidante back safely. _"We were waiting for it_ ," Lady Mary qualifies unnecessarily and Carson slips back to impassive front-facing attention as soon as he is assured that no untoward outpourings of emotions are about to occur on the front steps of this noble Abbey. Thankfully, Anna is throwing off an edginess and reluctance for human contact that Carson recognises as being similar to the way Mr Bates was when he was first released from hard labour and back into normalcy at Downton.

Anna is perfunctory and to the point, _"Yes, but I'm not released, M'Lord. I'm still on bail,"_ the perfect servant she has always been. Carson also recognises this latter factor in a flash and he is ever so glad of it. Their Anna is one tough nut and she will prevail, even despite his recent inability to reassure Mrs Hughes otherwise, Carson knows that he is right to always travel in hope for the beleaguered couple.

" _Maybe. But with a signed confession and a man on the run, they could never hope for a guilty verdict."_ Lord Grantham states with greater surety than he actually feels. _It is just like leading good men into battle, Cora was right,_ he muses.

Carson notes Mr Murray's eyes widening and the clenching of his jaw, which suggests that the lawyer realises more clearly than perhaps His Lordship does at the moment that what Bates has done is hardly a wise move in _any_ pragmatic man's eyes. Murray knows that John Bates will hang this time around once he is caught and there is little Murray can possibly do to stop it.

" _And if they find him and prove him innocent, do I go back to prison?"_ Anna manages to say past the rising lump in her throat. But she will not cry— she will not. For she has spent too many nights on her hard cot in her cold cell doing just that. She just wishes to confirm facts, even though she is too far along this path to think that what John would very easily be found innocent. Vyner has had it in for one or both of them for far too long for her to hold out too much hope that both of them will make it out of this mess alive.

" _It is a very frustrating situation."_ Murray offers, cap in hand and in an understated manner that barely hides the helplessness he actually feels about the current state of affairs _._ The whole process is bound for tragedy. They all know it but daren't articulate their fears lest they definitely come true too soon.

But Anna soldiers through where others fear to tread, _"If he's guilty, I'm innocent._

 _And if I'm guilty, he's innocent. Except neither of us did it."_

" _Which is what we must prove."_ Lady Mary offers, taking up her father's hopeful banner as she sees Anna on the verge of breaking _._

" _Well You're home now, that's something. At least we're going forward, not backwards,"_ Murray follows up more hopefully and as a means to gird himself for the next onslaught that he will face in this sordid case file. He must be getting on with it. _"Ahh-Now, can the car take me to the station?"_

" _Stark will drive us both,"_ Lord Grantham offers as he flicks a directive eye towards Carson and the butler has clearly pre-empted it and moves immediately to see to the car doors, his face is grimmer than usual as he begins processing all that has happened in these last minutes and still concerned for how he can get a word in with Murray " _I have to be in York in half an hour, so I'm leaving now."_ Mary registers her father's wishes with concern for him and how much he might be hiding from them all about the pain he is in, especially since he had to give up on several days of good shooting at Brancaster, but Anna needs her too and so Lady Mary tries to trust that her Mama has her Papa well in hand with all of that for now. " _Ah. Carson, will you tell Her Ladyship where I've gone?"_ Lord Grantham requests.

" _Certainly, My Lord,"_ Carson assures His Lordship, although with some of Lady Mary's concern creeping into the edges of his own current concerns— that perhaps all is not as well as it seems with His Lordship. _If only Bates were back! He'd know in seconds if anything were ailing His Lordship. Two appointments in York in as many weeks!_ But Carson pushes these thoughts aside quickly, even as he has one eye seeking some sort of sign from Murray about his plans, and one ear still on Lady Mary as she appears as antsy as a little school girl wanting to help her friend hurt out in the play yard.

" _Do you want to come in this way?"_ Lady Mary once more curbs her desire to give Anna a hug, for she looks so heavy and forlorn even though she has visibly lost some weight since she has been away _._ And Mary internally curses, yet again, her particular station in this world when it comes to any sort of close human connection. It is in moments like this she always thinks of her beloved Matthew never returning to her side. But, at least it is a weight in her pockets that she is getting somewhat better at carrying of late.

" _No, I'll go 'round by the kitchen courtyard, M'Lady. Might as well get back into the swing of things,"_ Anna assures her, and Lady Mary realises that Anna knows very well the weight of the world, yet she feels impotent in her ability to comfort Anna in any way like the way that her Lady's Maid did when Matthew first died. All she can do is nod in acquiescence, understanding that Anna must feel the need to keep busy right now. She supposes she can offer more to her in the privacy of her bedchamber later this evening when she readies for dinner or her bedtime. She will bide her time until then, knowing that at least Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes will likely smother Anna enough in welcome and comfort in the meantime.

Meanwhile, Murray speaks to Carson in a suitably private and hushed tone. "As I am sure you can appreciate, Mr Carson, I have had much to handle on His Lordship's behalf at the moment."

"Of course, Mr Murray."

"However, my young intern, Mr Davis, is very keen to make his mark within the firm. I have entrusted your file to him, and I can assure you he is working as quickly as he is able to. I will, of course, be checking all of his documentation personally before finalising, but I would think we should have a confirmation ready for you within the next fortnight."

"Thank you, Mr Murray. That _is_ good news."

"Yes,…well… I would say this whole house needs some right now…"

"Indeed," Carson agrees in a suitably grave tone, even though he feels flushed with a rising and barely contained elation. Then in the next moment, he feels that he is in dithering despair once more as He catches Lord Grantham's questioning eye upon him and the possible nature of Carson's exchange with Murray.

As Carson closes the door after Murray, and Stark sets the motor in gear, Carson manages to send His Lordship a rather impassive nod in half salute to reassure him that he will 'know when he needs to know' regarding this particular secret. He sees His Lordship release a small sigh of tension that his man can still be trusted to not bowl another googly* at him in the way that _Bleeding_ Barrow did with Stowell and Sinderby at Brancaster.

As the car rubbles of on the driveway, Carson turns a quick heel to see if Lady Mary should need anything from him right now, for if he were to see Mrs Hughes at this moment, he knows that he would be blurting out his news before anything is truly certain about their little house on Brounker Road.

 _oOOo_

 **A/N :** *Googly- a method of bowling a cricket ball that can deceive the batsman into thinking that it will be a leg break, but which then pitches in the opposite direction towards an off-break and possibly getting him out. Readers of my work will know that I have been developing Carson, and even Robert's personas as avid cricketing sportsmen. For more on Carson in relation to cricket, see "Calling Stumps". For more on Googlies, in particular: en. wikipedia wiki/Bernard _ Bosanquet _ (cricketer)

Regards,

BTF :)


	14. Ch 14—Domestic Manoeuvres

**Conversations with the Man Upstairs. Chapter 14— Domestic Manoeuvres**

 **A/N** **: Hi All, I am slowly edging my way back into this fiction. I can offer no promises as to when this will all get to my take on the much-loved Chelsie proposal scene. Again, this chapter is not what you may expect— I didn't entirely expect to take it this particular path either. I have had some notions simmering, over quite a long time, that the working relationship between Lady Grantham and Mrs Hughes would be fascinating to look in on. I think I can work this connection into the final scenes for this whole fiction in a reasonable and worthwhile manner. I guess I am finding it difficult to let go of the influences that all members of a household will have upon one another, even though this is meant to be a Chelsie romance piece!**

 **Carson and Lord Grantham's working connection also gets a showing in this chapter— for those who may have a preference.**

 **Kind regards,**

 **VC.**

 **oOOo**

 **9am Wednesday 9** **th** **December 1925.**

 **In Lady Grantham's sitting room, Downton Abbey**

"Ah, Mrs Hughes. Good morning."

"Good morning, "M'lady."

"I do hope you managed some time to yourself while we were away, even with everything else that is going on at the moment."

"I did. Thank you, M'Lady. It is kind of you to ask."

Cora Crawley eyes her loyal Mrs Hughes closely and notes that there is a somewhat heavy air about her, but she knows better than to openly inquire about it. She has her sources and does wonder at what Carson and Mrs Hughes are about. For quite some time now, their likely imminent retirement has been simmering just out of focus and in the back of Cora's mind. It is an issue that they will all need to face in the not too distant future. She feels somewhat buffeted about at the moment—a little unsteady— what with the Edith and Marigold (and Cora's still seething chagrin at Mama and Rosamund and the parts they played in leaving her out of _that_ particular loop). Then there are the Bateses; and, Tom and Sybbie leaving. And _now_ , Robert's ill health — all riding on the crashing wave that was the Bricker uncomfortableness (not to mention all manner of other nonsense that Cora has had to deftly shift pieces about for in the background of everyone's lives). Right now she feels a sudden quickening of her pulse at the fact that she really has not dwelt enough on how on _earth_ her household would run without either of their heads of staff in place.

Cora has had quite the inkling that she will be losing both Carson and Mrs Hughes in one fell swoop. Mama had intimated as much with her typically blunt and yet obtuse manner one day recently at tea in the Dower House, but Cora had not really been ready to openly concede her own suspicions that this would be the case. Still, now in looking at Mrs Hughes' own less than _entirely_ steady front this morning, she is beginning to doubt even her own keen instincts. _Something_ _has_ _happened between them,_ her mind flashes and then she lets go of the notion again, trusting that neither Carson nor Mrs Hughes will leave them all in the lurch while all is still so uncertain. She just has to trust them— as she has always been able to. And it is to that end that Lady Grantham makes her most important request for their current path forward… _Well… at least up to the point where she can see Robert through being able to more graciously farewell their dear Tom and Sybbie come the new year. Huurgh…_ She groans internally.

Yet it is with precise diction that she begins, "Mrs Hughes, I am sure all is well in hand for the Christmas season, but I do have a special request, that I think you will agree will be the best way to be able to handle the staffing issues now that Bates is not available to His Lordship."

"Of course, M'Lady. You will be wanting Mr Carson to attend to His Lordship in Mr Bates' place wherever possible."

"Ah! You know me too well, Mrs Hughes."

"I wouldn't say that, Your Ladyship…perhaps it is just that we both know what all the men of the house need a little more than they might know it themselves… for the time being."

"Indeed, Mrs Hughes. I was glad when His'Lordship requested Carson last night to catch up privately on affairs with him, and I do think it will keep things steadier if Barrow could take more of Carson's table duties to allow Carson to valet more readily."

"Of course, M'lady. I will work to arrange it… These are… delicate times, it would appear… But Barrow is ready for more responsibility out front. Mr Carson saw to it that the Moorlands trip was handled more by Mr Barrow for that very reason," Mrs Hughes covers a little for Mr Carson on that front, for she is not actually sure what Mr Carson's true intent was in allowing Thomas so much of his own head and responsibility in that sudden manoeuvre.

 _Ah! So there it is,_ Cora muses, _Carson_ _is_ _planning for retirement…_ She eyes Mrs Hughes carefully again and sees her lightly chewing at her bottom lip and looking downwards and to the left—her habit when trying to hide her emotions, Cora has long since realised. _But what of you Mrs Hughes? Am I to lose you as well?_

Cora cannot tell, and quite frankly, she does not know what she would dread more—Mrs Hughes staying on without the surety of Carson by her side… or having to deal with two brand new heads of staff in one fell swoop, especially if Barrow is one of that new pair. She knows Barrow was sailing very close to the wind with some secret or another up at Brancaster, but she could get nothing out of Rose, Mary, or even Robert, and so she decided to just let it slide for the moment. No harm appeared to have been done with their new familial connection. Indeed, all seemed to end quite swimmingly between Lord Sinderby and the Granthams. _Sometimes keeping abreast of all of these petty machinations can be so very wearying,_ Cora sighs internally. Still, she will need to watch Barrow closely. She knows she can work with the somewhat oily man, but Robert does have a tendency to forgive Barrow his many trespasses a little too readily. Mary is somewhat akin to Barrow, so the match there is not out of the question. _She will know a little of how to handle him, and it could even end up being a fruitful, if somewhat unorthodox, match._ Certainly, it is not what Cora would wish for in her running of the Abbey, but then again, when has her life ever fully followed a path she would have desired or expected?

Still, Cora can admit, deep down, what she would truly wish for Mrs Hughes and their dear Carson. Despite her own unconventional and pragmatically loveless courtship, Cora is still a bit of a romantic in her secret heart of hearts. She knows that love can grow and prevail in the most unusual of circumstances, and there is something right and fitting that Mrs Hughes and Carson might finally have found that sort of joy in one another.

 _Still, something is afoot here…_

"On a similar front M'lady, it may be prudent that Anna and I attend to you in Miss Baxter's place on occasion."

"Oh? And why is that?" Cora is genuinely curious, and yet her somewhat revolutionary spirit, learnt from her mother's side of the family is ever so slightly rankled. Despite all appearances, Cora has never enjoyed being told what to do, even when it is simply about how she should manage her own Lady's maids. S _till, Mrs Hughes would never ask if it were not important_ … And Cora must admit to herself that sometimes her judgment on this most intimate staffing front has been somewhat blinkered and damaging. _And Baxter, even as an ex-convict, is still the best that I have ever had!_ She knows that Mrs Hughes knows the worst of Baxter's history, even though they have not exchanged a single word between them on the matter.

"M'Lady, please forgive the inconvenience, but there has been a suggestion made by both Mr Molesley and Miss Baxter to me, that I try to arrange their rosters to coincide a little more. It appears Mr Molesley has a notion that he might be able to track down Mr Bates' actual whereabouts in York on the fatal day in question—so to speak. He would like for these plans to be kept quiet for the moment though, in case they should all come to nothing."

"Well, that makes sense. Well! And who would have thought Molesley would have such initiative in him? But, _must_ he have Baxter with him?" Cora is still not entirely understanding of the suggested plan.

"I do think it may help his cause while making inquiries after Mr Bates. You see, Mr Bates might be remembered by a publican in an ale house he stopped at in York that day—for some lunch."

"So, Mr Molesley will be dragging my lady's maid into a multitude of ale houses on their shared days off!"

"I know, M'lady…it is indeed… unorthodox… far from ideal," but Mrs Hughes knows that Lady Grantham trusts and understands her and that she can move with the times as the needs arise. "Still, we already face gossip enough with poor Mr and Mrs Bates situation…and we have handled worse potential scandals with Ethel at Crawley House" she adds pragmatically if a tad sheepishly for the part she played in all of that potential scandal. Thankfully, Mrs Crawley's stridency in the matter of Ethel's employment shielded Mrs Hughes from too much scrutiny for having kept Ethel's links to the Abbey and the village at all alive in the first instance.

"Hmm.." Cora lips are drawn thin. "Yes… perhaps a little too much by the skin of our teeth in that particular manoeuvre, Mrs Hughes," but she draws a sighing breath and realises that Mrs Hughes would not request all of this with Baxter and Molesey without very good reason, and not without her heart being in the right place too.

Mrs Hughes continues "And I do think, Milady, that 'a woman's touch' with such inquiries may make Mr Molesley's plan to trace a man from a photograph seem a little more reasonable… even if not entirely palatable…And on the more pragmatic side of things, I think Anna will do well to be kept as busy as possible for the moment. It would mostly be for your morning dressings, M'lady. And whatever Anna cannot manage in conjunction with attending to Lady Mary and Lady Edith, I am sure I can accomplish without too many questions to field from Mr Carson."

"Yes, I suppose I do see what you mean." Cora makes her decision in staff management rapidly after that, for the York ale houses idea is at least some sort of lead to follow. If it means she can have Bates and Anna back on deck and cleared of any wrongdoing sooner, then she is willing to take the risk. _Robert needs his man with him if he is ever to accept that Carson may be leaving us soon._ "Well, I will leave it all in your capable hands, Mrs Hughes. Now, the other matter I would ask for your expertise with handling, and I realise it will be a difficulty given we are in the festive season, is to request that Mrs Patmore provide family meals that are a little less rich— at least for the time being."

"Is everything quite well, M'lady?"

Cora turns her concerned gaze aside a little and swallows hard on a fear she has not yet been ready to fully recognise and accept. But she girds herself and does not fear showing her dear Mrs Hughes the sudden glassiness in her eyes.

"I am afraid it may not be, Mrs Hughes. It appears that His Lordship is suffering from some sort of stomach complaint. He was in York again yesterday to see a specialist. It is another of the reasons that I want Carson attending to him more closely. Bates' tea-totalling does appear to serve to curb some of my husband's indulgences with after supper brandy's, and Carson is the next best thing in this case. He will likely see when enough is enough for His Lordship's wellbeing better than Barrow might."

"Indeed, M'lady. I will see to it that it happens."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. I always know that I can trust your complete discretion in these matters. I do not want my girls to worry unnecessarily before more can be known about Lord Grantham's recovery."

"Of course, I will make sure that it is unlikely the rest of the family recognises the changes to the menus, M'lady."

"Thank you. Then there is just the matter of picking out some of the staff gifts. Please feel free to adjust what I have suggested on that second list, particularly if you think an alternative will be more fitting." Cora just cannot help herself, and so she nudges ever so slightly, "Perhaps you and Mr Carson could arrange a half-day in Ripon or York together to see to all of the minutiae."

"It is very generous of you, M'Lady, but it might be easier to achieve all of this with Anna, or even Mrs Patmore— if I can arrange it." Mrs Hughes notes as she quickly glances through the quite extensive Christmas list, completely missing this particular surreptitious bunt from Her Ladyship.

"Very well," Cora concedes, managing to keep any sense of disappointment out of her tone. "Now, if there is nothing else to report Mrs Hughes, I am sure I can leave all of the plans for the lead up to Christmas in your sure hands. You have our schedule and as you can see, we expect only the usual daytime visitors for tea at this time of year. The only other event to concern ourselves with is the standard Christmas Eve carols for the household and grounds staff. I am sure Mrs Patmore's Christmas luncheon will be as resplendent as ever, given what I saw of her preparations before we left for Brancaster Castle... We are all old hands at his now, are we not, Mrs Hughes?" Cora cannot help but to try and nudge again.

"We're not dead yet, M'lady" Mrs Hughes replies somewhat absently and in a far more flippant manner than is at all their custom when working together. She blanches a little as soon as she realises her faux pas, but when she looks up from the papers and into Lady Grantham's eyes, once more, all she sees a sweetness of good-humoured understanding.

Cora lets another ball go through to the shortstop, and carries on as if none the wiser. "By the by, Mrs Hughes, I would like for you to extend a welcome to Mr Mason to the Carols this year. I have been thinking on him since the memorial was unveiled and then when we last saw him at Sunday mass. He is still on his own out at Mallerton and I do think it will be pleasant to include him in our celebrations alongside Daisy… Still, all in all, I want things to be little quieter this year until we see Mr Branson and Sybbie safely off."

"Quite right, M'lady… and that is a lovely thought for Mr Mason." Elsie toys somewhat forlornly with the list Lady Grantham has handed her. Her mind is reeling a little.

Given her lack of success with drawing Mrs Hughes out about her relations with Carson recently, Cora suspects Mrs Hughes current unsteadiness is because of little Sybbie and their Tom being lost to them all so soon. She knows that Mrs Hughes holds them both of them in tender regard. However, the truth of it for Elsie is that the thought that Beryl will have a chance at possibly developing her nascent connection with dear Mr Mason is what has caused Elsie to plummet into the despair that still lurks about the ashes of her own desires for a possible future retirement with Mr Carson— and this is despite the two of them slowly picking their way through the detritus of their ruined plans towards a closeness of good friendship again. Elsie shudders as silent a breath as she can manage in order to blink away the sudden glassiness in her own eyes. She continues to try to travel with the thin hope that at least the Christmas season will keep both her and Mr Carson busy enough to forget the worst that they have inflicted upon one another lately.

The ball game appears to be over as Cora observes Mrs Hughes very closely once more. Instead, Cora is back to fingering lightly at which piece she may need to move next in this little chess game of intricate household management. In brief time, Cora re-works her strategy and decides to sit back from the board and remove her hands from that particular piece — at least for the time being. She is in no position to be causing any sort of unneeded atmosphere to develop any further between her two heads of staff. Once the new year sees the board cleared of her current familial concerns, she will prod a little more at the state of play.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. That will be all."

"M'Lady."

As if to compensate for her earlier offhandedness with Her Ladyship, Elsie automatically dips a small courtesy and then turns to exit the sitting room. Old habits would die hard it seems, for Lady Grantham had actually told her to dispense with that particular formality whenever in private audience with her, many, many years ago.

oOOo

 **9pm that same day**

 **Lord Grantham's Dressing room**

Carson meticulously brushes down His Lordships dinner jacket before hanging it back in the mahogany wardrobe, quickly noting that it should not require a laundry cleaning this time around.

Carson's innately elegant and flowing movements are certainly different from Bates' necessarily halting gate and the inherent simpering stiffness that Barrow offers. Robert finds it calming to watch the man at this time when all is so uncertain again. Surreptitiously appreciating the methodical precision of Carson's work is certainly preferable to having to keep a close eye on Barrow after the Brancaster/Sinderby near-disaster. However, Robert is not actually nostalgic for the days when Carson served him as a valet in their younger years, for he truly would not be without Bates again if he can at all help it. No man could possibly have his back in the way that Bates has done over the years, despite all of the difficulties they have faced together.

Still, Carson's sure presence does always steady him. Robert is still reeling a little from just how dire his health prognosis sounds, given what the specialist in York told him yesterday. He really did not divulge to his dear Cora exactly how severe his symptoms are. All she knows is that he must down an atrocious chalk-based liquid before each of his evening meals. He knows she will do her part to look after him, but he cannot bear to distress her any further at the moment, what with their darling little Sybbie and good old Tom about to leave them. The truth is that Robert is needing to down that foul liquid prior to his every morning meal as well, and it is doing nothing good for his daily constitutional at this stage and at his age. _But nothing is regular in this life at the moment,_ he muses to himself somewhat indelicately… _Only Carson. He is a good regular sort of chap…always has been._

Still, as Carson silently sees to Robert's tie, cufflinks, collar pins and shirt studs, placing them precisely in their respective cases, Robert eyes his man shrewdly. Robert realises that Carson has already pegged that he is not moving as freely as normal. He saw that formidable and gravely raised eyebrow when Robert rose from his after-dinner brandy with Tom, leaving his cigar half-smoked and half a finger still in his tumbler. Robert had barely repressed a groan as he slowly lifted himself from his dining chair. _Hang it all, the man is an absolute brick_. He never speaks until spoken to and Robert is curious after the exchange he saw between Murray and Carson yesterday, and so he asks.

"Carson."

"Yes, M'Lord." Carson continues his work, without missing a beat, gently drawing His Lordships Starch fronted shirt up over his head and shaking it out with a thwacking flick before hanging it in the wardrobe as well.

"Carson, is all quite well with you?"

"Of course it is, M'lord. I have no complaints."

 _Discrete to a ruddy fault! Not like Bloody Barrow. But by God, he can be such an obtuse old brick sometimes— always has been…_

"No, and I mean _despite_ all of the to-ing and fro-ing to cover for Bates…Is all well… with your business with Murray?" Because, hang it all, even though he knows that it is incredibly nosey, Robert senses that something is afoot and it interests him no end. Ever since he heard of the Cheerful Charlies and watched Carson take his place on the memorial committee, it has struck Robert intermittently that his man actually has a private life that includes plans and options and dealings that might now even require a solicitor's services.

He watches as Carson pauses for a brief and uncomfortable second before offering His Lordship his brand new paisley printed winter-weight flannelette pajama top to shrug into.

And as he skirts around to Lord Grantham's front to attend to the buttons, Carson realises that he does not really need, nor indeed _want_ to skirt around this particular issue any more. He knows, without the need to openly confirm it, that His Lordship will hold his next words in complete and utter confidence, no matter how shocking he may find them. Still, Carson finds it much easier to not meet His Lordship's eyes, lest he sees disappointment rise within them. So, Carson pours his focus into the small shirt buttons and tucks a simple cotton kerchief into its top monogrammed pocket, just in case His Lordship should need it in the night. He states seriously, whilst also trying to minimise the full import of the news and what Lord Grantham will eventually glean from all of Carson's current plans.

"Mr Murray is merely helping me to finalise a property investment I have decided to make from out of my savings. Mrs Patmore's small purchase in Haughton-le-Skerne, and your own plans to build cottages on Potter's field brought the possible option all to the fore for me."

"Well congratulations, Carson." Robert says heartily. "Freeholding property is always a wise move."

"' _And never sell unless you absolutely must'_ , as you recalled your own father's own legacy most recently, M'Lord."

"Indeed. Wise words in that, to be sure. So, may I inquire as to which property you have your eye on?"

"Of course, M'Lord." Carson impassively removes His Lordship's dress pants, one leg at a time from a one-legged kneeling position before his master. Carson's shoulder is offered for Lord Grantham to steady his stance in the process, and it does not escape Carson's notice that the man has gripped like a vice through one of the movements, obviously flinching in quite some pain once more. But Carson is hardly poised to be enquiring about such personal matters in his current position.

Instead, he carries on as steadily as he can, even though he does feel a strange thudding in his chest at the excitement of being able to share with someone his most exciting news. Yet trepidation remains on so very many fronts with all of this.

"Mr Murray believes that my settlement will be through before Christmas—on the Brounker Rd house on the outskirts of the village." _But what if it doesn't go through?_ Carson quashes the thought quickly as His lordship responds.

"Oh, that is a fine old place, Carson. Originally owned by the Coopers and their generations."

"Indeed, I seem to vaguely recall having Sunday luncheon with Mr and Mrs Cooper senior after church, back when my Dad was still running the stables here…after mother passed…" Carson adds somewhat unnecessarily and discomfortingly. Death is such a fine killer of friendly inquiry.

"Yes…well… It is a fine family home. But what are _your_ plans for it, Carson?"

Carson does not miss the emphasis on the fact that Carson cannot possibly want it for a family of his own… and yet, really, that is _all_ that this is about… _A family home of my own…_ Carson is still in love with the silent sound of it! _Still, how much should I let His lordship know? All is so very uncertain…but…doesn't he deserve to know the truth of my plans…for retirement… for …more… Will he think me ungrateful… But Mrs Hughes also mulled over the difficulty of separation that the family is feeling at the moment with Miss Sybbie…and Mr Branson too... I suppose… will this be too much for him….and he is not well right now to boot— I can tell that all is not well with him… I should curb what he is imbibing… Her Ladyship would want that…Mrs Hughes would recommend it if she knew, I am sure. Mrs Hughes… my dear Mrs Hughes..._

But Carson obfuscates a little instead, "Well, my initial thinking has been to do what Mrs Patmore is planning – to run it as a guest house and turn a small profit… a …an additional retirement annuity, so to speak…" _Dear God, the cats out now…Retirement!_ However, Lord Grantham seems to have not cottoned on to the longing in Carson's tone as he speaks about his plans for retirement so Carson tumbles on a little further. "With…Mrs Hughes…ideally."

"Oh, so you are investing in it together? She is certainly a fine Housekeeper and astute manager." Still totally obtuse as to what Carson's real intentions are.

"Yes. No… Well not exactly… yet."

"You are not making a lot of sense, Carson."

 _Oh, Dear god!… where to now… I've blabbered to much._ But Carson rallies himself a little,"No, I suppose not… It's just that much is still uncertain, M'Lord… With Mrs Hughes…she is not fully committed to investing in the plan as yet…and so…I…I have taken the risk…the liberty… in the hopes that she will come around to the idea in due course…I have invested in the property on my own, M'Lord."

"But I don't understand, Carson, if you could manage it on your own from the outset, why do you need Mrs Hughes to sign on to the plan at all?"

Carson once more is focussing intently on His Lordships garments and yet his hands cannot help but fumble a little with the ties on the man's newly vested pajama pants. He manages to finish and finds relief in being able to turn away to position His Lordship's slippers conveniently enough for him to simply step into them.

And it is through that motion and in that moment that Carson decides to finally slide the full truth home. To say out loud to at least _someone_ , all that he has had roiling about inside him for so very long— like a tide on the beach finally washing over him in the very twilight if his life. _It has been so long… so long..._

"It is not so much a need, Your Lordship… although maybe it is that too…but it is a _want_ … I..I dearly want for Mrs Hughes to be with me in this venture."

"Carson?"

Carson finally looks up from his routine tasks with His Lordships accoutrements and meets the man's eyes. All of Carson's fears and worries that his gamble with Mrs Hughes acceptance of him as a husband may actually be desperately mistaken is clearly glancing out from the depths of his fervent longing. His fears of being dismissed from his post by Lord Grantham for ever entertaining the notions of a Butler marrying the Housekeeper of such a grand house as this is but a flickering shadow of insignificance in the more important scheme of Carson's life now. These days are quickly passing by for him… but even if the worst should come to the worst, Carson could likely still plod along here— Lady Grantham is a sure hand at swaying any of His Lordship's residual outrage— if the needs must. Carson knows that he would somehow manage to soldier on through each long and weary day until the very end of his days, and then he could still haunt the halls and vaults of the Abbey in the sweet heartbroken hereafter of his life— if the needs must.

But thankfully, Robert, who is not as completely inept about matters of the heart and of family as Cora might sometimes believe him to be, can actually see his man with blinding clarity for the first time tonight.

Robert reaches for Carson's shoulder in an entirely different manner this time. Patting it firmly and then giving it a hearty squeeze like an old school chum, as he intones softly "My good fellow." He offers a clear and honest smile for his man.

And hang it all, he just cannot help it, the full ramifications of what the truth of Carson's plans will entail for Robert's own household are completely lost to him in this moment. He just feels overwhelming goodwill for Carson's chance to live with and to love such a fine woman as Mrs Hughes. His renewed closeness with Cora since the Bricker incident only serves to reinforce the vital importance of a man aligning himself truly with the lady that he has vowed to love and to honour. "If I know you as I think I do, Carson, I am sure that you will choose exactly the right occasion to convince the lady of your worth…"

"Thank you, Your Lordship. That… means a lot to me." Carson swallows hard on the lump that has unaccountably formed in his throat, but he remains as stiffly straight-backed and steady as he can be in the middle of such a terribly emotive exchange with his master.

"Ha!" Robert burst through with some uncommon joy for these last few fraught days of ill health, exiting grandchildren and errant servants. "And I am just glad that this will be at least one bally piece of news in this household that I am not the completely last idiot to find out about, old chap! Good show… Very Good show…" _Not even Cora knows about this one yet!_

Carson finally cracks a sheepish, chubby-cheeked and boyish smile that glints with nervous pride, all the way to his eyes.

"Thank you, M'Lord…" Then he clips out a quick bow of his head as Robert turns with some renewed energy towards Cora's bed-chamber door "Good night, M'Lord."

"All things considered, Carson, it is indeed a very good night, old chap."

oOOo


End file.
